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#idol! reader
luimagines · 6 months
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Idol!Reader, who's from our world, hides they're a idol from the chain. Well, not hides, just never mentions it? Like they're too busy focusing on staying alive and helping the chain the best they can.
As for how the boys find out about their old job, maybe one of the boys ask Idol!Reader if they could sing? Like they're all just fooling around by the campfire and some of the Link's bring out their instruments and the other Links just start singing (Horribly) along? Then one of them urges Idol!Reader to join in and BOOM, the boys are amazed by how well they could sing.
ooooohhhh, ok. XD
That makes more sense. I think that Reader would take over the sea shanties from then on.
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246sn · 2 years
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runaway bride ( ✶ ) chapter eight : the dumbest plan ever created
⋆ don’t forget to read the written chapter below! % word count: 2.9k words (it's so long i'm sorry 😭)
⸝⸝ SYNOPSIS ‎𐪆 right when you thought you could run away from your past life as a figure skater by being an idol, you meet the sole person who made you want to leave that life behind in the first place. ₊˚✸ ༘
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sunghoon arrived at work feeling more confident than ever. he could easily read you like an open book after all the years he's known you.
he knew when you were sad, happy, irritated, you name it, and he knew he would always be there for you no matter what but there was a small part of him that was doubtful, especially now, because it was definitely a strange time for the two of you.
he always convinced himself that the two of you were fine and that your friendship had not changed, but he knew deep down that this was not the case; he just refused to accept it.
he couldn't tell how you were feeling right now, and it bothered him. you weren't the same y/n he knew two years ago; you were someone entirely different.
the rest of the story is below!
when he first saw you again, he had a lot of questions in his head. how were you doing? were you having a fun time? do you have any regrets? have you made any new idol friends? were your members kind to you? he wanted to catch up and talk to you like old times, but when you pushed him away the first time you two met again, almost every glimmer of hope he had vanished.
after all, it was his fault. he always thought that keeping you in the dark about where he went would help him focus on his new goal, which was to make his debut as an idol.
however, this was not the case, and all he could think about was you. while locked up in i-land, he wondered if you were watching him on tv and cheering him on from afar. he'd even think you were bragging about being his best friend to everyone you met.
sure, he wondered if his other ice skating friends were rooting for him on the show, but he was more interested in what you were doing.
sure, he wondered if his other ice skating friends were rooting for him on the show, but he was more interested in what you were doing.
were you watching him and telling all of your friends to support him? do you believe he performed well in each week's challenges? what do you think he could have done better?
throughout everything, he kept wondering if you were still by his side and took comfort in the thought that you were. after all, you two agreed to remain best friends the last time he saw you. he also wanted you to be the first in everything he did, not only because that was what he was used to but because you were always so important to him.
his first friend, his first competition, his first gold medal celebration, his first ups and downs, and even his first love. all of the firsts he could recall had you in them, and he didn't want that to change.
he wanted you to be the first to hear his music, which he created as an official artist. he wanted you to be the first to see finished performances of his own songs. he wanted you to be the first to hear about every plan his group had, as well as the first to see their music videos or appearances on variety shows.
he wanted you to compliment him, tell him that you were proud of him, and reassure him that you would be there for him every step of the way. It's always been you. you were and always will be the most important person in his life.
though it went unnoticed to you, sunghoon tried his best to meet you again throughout those two years. he reasoned that the best time to tell you about his new found dream was after his debut so that everything would be set in stone.
so, after his first ever promotions ended, he went to your house, expecting to hang out with you like how you used to almost everyday after practice, but you weren't there.
thankfully, your mom would always keep him up to date on whatever she knew about you whenever he came over, making his visit at least worthwhile.
around that time, he knew you continued figure skating and drowned out any talk about him, even though you knew a part of you worked extra hard was in order to fulfill both yours and sunghoon’s shared dream of making it to the beijing olympics.
sunghoon found it amusing because he had been planning what they would do once they qualified to compete in the olympics.
he vividly remembers researching the best tourist attractions in beijing so that you two could extend your visit to go sightseeing as a celebration of both of your dreams finally coming true. it didn't matter whether either of you won or lost.
sunghoon could only laugh at the fact that that would never be possible now, and though it may sound harsh, he never had any regrets about retiring from the figure skating scene, even if it meant abandoning all of his plans with you.
the only thing he wanted now was to achieve his new dreams and have you right next to him, which seemed so close yet so far now that he thought about it.
your mom also told him that you would primarily stay in the dormitories near the training center because you wanted to practice as much as possible at all times.
he definitely knew you were a hard worker, and it took him everything he had not to contact you and tell you to take breaks whenever you're tired because he knew you and how hard you are on yourself.
sunghoon had just finished enhypen's first comeback promotions when he attempted to visit you. unfortunately for him, you and your mom were out of the country for a competition, so he couldn't see you or hear about you.
he could see how well you were doing though, because he, along with the rest of your family, watched as you won the gold medal for your performance, and that would be the last time he ever saw you skate. It wasn't because he wasn't up to date on the skating world anymore, but because you hadn't competed since.
when his second comeback promotions ended, he was sure he'd meet you and tell you everything, but luck was never on his side when your mom told him you'd moved out a month before.
she informed him that you had recently made a lot of new friends and had moved out to begin training. of course, he had no idea that your 'training' was to become an idol rather than to begin training for beijing, which he knew you were more than likely to be qualified for.
she also told him you were very happy, which relieved him and though it hurt to know you were happy without him, it felt good to know you were happy regardless.
after two years of not meeting again, he wondered why exactly he was so afraid of contacting you all this time. is it really because he wanted the first time you two spoke again to be in real life rather than through a phone screen, or was it because he was afraid of being confronted with the reality that he might no longer have a place in your life like he always had?
what she didn't mention was your doubts about whether your impulsive decision was the right one, and, more importantly, how much you missed sunghoon. you wouldn't admit it, but she could tell you missed him by the way your entire demeanor changed whenever his name was mentioned.
his thoughts got the best of him and he was definitely stressed. the confidence he had only a few minutes ago had completely disappeared after realizing two years is a long time, long enough to be completely cut out from someone’s life.
making you jealous was the dumbest plan he and jake have ever created… and that says a lot because they’ve made lots of those in the past. so sunghoon needed to think of a smart execution and quick.
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wonyoung, on the other hand, was puzzled by the entire situation. she did see sunghoon in a new light, but not in the way she had presumed.
sunghoon was probably the calmest person wonyoung had ever met, so seeing him put his hands over his head in frustration confused her.
is this because of the same girl who has sunghoon wrapped around her fingers?
wonyoung never actually felt a speck of jealousy for that girl in the sense that sunghoon literally would do anything for her but she was a little envious that she had gotten all of sunghoon's attention just as they were becoming close friends.
in all honesty, she just thought that saying she liked him and acting jealous would be the easiest way to explain what she was feeling inside. sunghoon was always just a friend and a coworker to her, and she knew he felt the same way.
she hated to brag about herself, but she was proud of herself for being so convincing. this jealous front she had put up for about a week now was so convincing that she even fooled the people who truly knew her. despite this, she believes that everyone else was foolish not to look deeper into it.
i mean, if she really liked him, she'd be fighting for him by now, wouldn't she? she never set out to make him see her as more than just a friend. after all, she has her pretty ive members and yuna. she's perfectly content.
she approached sunghoon, who was now frantically pacing around the room, and tapped him on the shoulder.
“sunghoon, are you okay?” sunghoon turned his head towards wonyoung so quickly that it startled her.
"no, come with me," he said, leading her out of the room. he then came to a sudden halt, causing wonyoung to yelp as she collided with him.
"why'd we sto—" her question was cut short by sunghoon shushing.
“where is polaris’ room?”
“polaris?” she looked around a little, trying to find polaris’ waiting room, not realizing she'd lost sunghoon.
fortunately, he didn't go far and was only frantically asking the staff for directions. he practically ran in the direction of where the staff had pointed towards and only stopped to quickly scold wonyoung for being too slow.
he peeped inside your waiting room, noticing staff filming you and your members rehearsing and warming up for your stage.
it seemed like the world stopped when he watched you laughing and joking around with your members that it reminded him of how you were with him. it looked like nothing changed and he missed that. before he became too hypnotized by you that he was about to enter, wonyoung pulled him back to snap out of it.
“sunghoon, why are we here?”
“i- uh…” he took another peep in the waiting room, noticing how your members had already begun heading towards the door.
all of a sudden, he starts laughing, though it was very obvious it was fake, “wonyoung, you’re so funny! you’re the funniest person i’ve ever met!” he says in between laughs for a good minute.
right when he saw you exit your waiting room in the corner of his eye he said, “you’re really pretty today, wonyoung. your outfit suits you.” though it really went unnoticed by you.
once he turned back and noticed all the polaris members had left to go backstage, sunghoon let out a sigh of relief before attempting to walk away. he couldn’t go far though since wonyoung pulled him back with a disappointed and embarrassed look on her face.
“what’s your deal, sunghoon? whatever you’re doing makes us look really weird...”
“sorry, it was just— remember jake?”
“yeah? your member, i remember him.”
“we kinda made a plan… to make y/n jealous.” with that, wonyoung scoffed before entering in a fit of laughter.
sunghoon looked at the younger girl, dumbfounded, as she continued to laugh. he looked around as he noticed you and jieun walking back to your waiting room from a distance. he had to stop staring at you, laughing and playing with your younger member to pay more attention to the girl in front of him.
as you and jieun got closer, wonyoung tried to catch her breath before approaching you and patting you on the back.
"i'm not sure how you did it, sunghoon is really something else," she said between giggles as she walked away.
"what's the deal with her?" jieun commented as you both watched the laughing girl walk away.
you shrugged in response, then watched sunghoon run past you and in the direction of wonyoung.
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your day at music bank wasn't particularly exciting. sure, you performed and won again, but nothing else caught your attention. you thought it was just going to be any other ordinary day. that is, until you were about to leave your waiting room to go to your next schedule when you noticed sunghoon holding wonyoung's hands.
aside from the noisy surroundings with all the other artists and staff packing up to head home or to their next schedules, the two mcs were a little far away so you couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but you could see how happy sunghoon got after wonyoung gave him a small nod. he was so overjoyed in fact that he even gave her a hug.
with those two actions came the feeling of your stomach dropping to the ground and disappointment and hurt replacing any other emotion you previously had.
you wondered how long wonyoung and sunghoon had known each other for the boy to feel comfortable hugging her. you remembered how it took him years to accept the fact that you were going to cling to him for what seemed like your entire lives.
you couldn't help but smile as you reminisced an 8-year-old sunghoon standing completely still whenever you hugged him or held his hand. you remembered how happy you were when, at 10, he finally began hugging you back and seemed to actually enjoy it.
you panicked a little when you noticed wonyoung happily approaching you. you never properly met wonyoung, but you assumed she was nice because sunghoon wouldn't hug just anyone. she was also very pretty, maybe even too pretty for you. she definitely made you feel a little insecure especially after you noticed how much she towered over you.
"y/n, right?" wonyoung asked, flashing you her pretty smile before extending her hand for you to shake. "i'm wonyoung."
of course, you shook her hand and tried to give her your best smile that didn't scream, 'you're too pretty for me to stand next to.'
"it's nice meeting you, wonyoung sunbaenim."
"there's no need for honorifics here. you're older than me, right? let's just treat each other like friends."
“oh, sure! that sounds nice.”
“congratulations on your win today, by the way.” she began before bending down to whisper in your ear, “though i already had a feeling you would win. the other group didn’t stand a chance... but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“thank you, wonyoung. you’re really kind.” you said after letting out a small laugh.
“of course, how could i not be when you and your group have been dominating the charts!” she responded before linking her arms with yours while walking along the hallway.
it was a short yet awkward silence as you noticed wonyoung looking back, presumably to look back at someone or something, “ah, right! i heard we have a mutual friend... sunghoon?”
“oh, i wouldn’t call him my friend–”
“nonsense! he’s been talking about you ever since you debuted!”
“he has…?”
“yeah! i was shocked when i saw you for the first time… you looked so… how could i say this…? you looked like elsa, like you were made for the ice!"
“well i did grow up skating–”
“you really look like sunghoon’s type.” she cut you off once again, unlinking your arms so she could have a better look at you. “you two would look really good together. it’s a bummer, really…”
it pained wonyoung how the small glimmer of hope she could see in your eyes slowly disappeared because of her words – the words sunghoon told her to say. now, he really owes her this time.
“why’s that?”
“didn’t you hear? he’s trying to ask someone out… no idea who though, he wouldn’t tell me.”
“oh... that’s really good for him. i’m happy for him.” were the words that came out of your mouth but as they flowed, the only thing you could ask yourself in your mind was “were you really?”
"he didn't tell you, did he?" wonyoung's shoulders slumped while her lips immediately formed a pout.
"he didn't, but that's fine. we're not that close anyway." you smiled up at her even if it was so painfully obvious that it was forced.
wonyoung was clearly disappointed with your response but nodded anyway. before bidding her farewells, she made sure to give you her phone number so you could talk to her about any troubles you had with sunghoon.
even though she knew you weren't going to text her for those reasons, she figured it was still worth a shot. she probably noticed how defeated you looked after she said all those things to you and that hurt her a lot too.
you were left standing in the middle of the corridor alone with all your thoughts running through your mind. you were supposed to be over him, so why are all your emotions resurfacing at the same time? maybe it was all a bad idea. you'd only been in the idol scene for a month and you were already confused about everything.
staying on the ice, no matter how much it reminded you of him, was the safest option because you knew sunghoon would never return and you regret realizing that now.
since it was already too late to back out, you should have done everything in your power to avoid sunghoon as much as possible. you've gone nearly two years without him, so why let your guard down now?
you also wondered why you were so upset after all this? why did it bother you that sunghoon started hugging wonyoung? why did it sting when wonyoung revealed that sunghoon had found someone else?
at this point, all you want to do is go home and forget about everything that has happened.
and maybe, just maybe, that's exactly what you'll do.
〈 masterlist | next 〉
⸝⸝ NOTE ‎𐪆 it’s so long i’m sorry i just wanted to slap everything into this one chap PLS 😭✋ anyways A Formal Apology to the Wonyoung Stans for the tweets… i hope everyone who doubted wony would apologize rn bc she’s rly doing all of hoons dirty work rn 😐
⸝⸝ TAGLIST ‎𐪆 [status : open for taglist 2] @ja4hyvn @aria-grace-scott @darrensos @c9tnoos @satorinnie @one16core @adnachiel97 @hrjchive @lqvwon @yjwnoot @jakahbot @softpia @chaeflms @d3ads0u1 @i-dubu @nshrkilvbt @ddeonu-s2 @yizhoutv @enhacolor @shynypeacekitten @solitxre @missmadwoman @youngbloodslut @wony6ung @mymomsdisappointment @hrtsforenha @miminyuu @chirokookie @hikruyo @tobiosbbyghorl @dxlicateee @jungwonswifex @mina-yoo334 @kingkaithekiwi @ferxanda @pshwyfie @magssu @bigtoewinwin @nyujjan @jaerisdiction @myluckycat @roseannepwwark @sd211 @cparqx @iz-hoonz @keii-1125 @ohsyanfei @certainyouthpeanut @yunkifoldr @lynnielvsu @itsjynop
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yyunari · 2 years
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%% NINE - chokes on air
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SYNOPSIS . many might recognize y/n as one of the most beloved and rounded 4th generation idols. being in aespa brought her a lot of popularity and made her really well known, especially for her looks. when y/n becomes a music bank mc along with enhypen’s sunghoon, what will happen when she meets her old high school crush from back in australia?
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previous - masterlist - next
a/n : NO ONE TOLD ME I FUCKED UP THE CHAPTER NUMBERS……
permanent taglist : @muhwaa @yizhoutv @ja4hyvn @maiwon @koakyuu @carayat @one16core @enhacolor @acciomylove @soobin-chois @moaengenesworld @en-boyz @msxflower @ohmy-fandoms @dinosdance
taglist : @lunaflvms @theskzvibe @jakelux @nshrkilvbt @rutowonz @certainyouthpeanut @chirokookie @miminyuu @itsjynop @qtsoob @oharella @ahnneyong @ineedcoffeeandtherapy @catecita @myluckycat @moon-lys @yunki4evr @i2gyus @wonyoluvie @diestheticu @c9tnoos @suneenhypen @sunny-nyu @y3jiishot @odxrilove @arizejkt19
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faux-ecrivain · 4 months
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Yan Idol
(Third official post)
Yan idol who used to be your best friend, the two of you used to be so close, but then he was recruited into stardom and suddenly he spent less, and less time with you.
Yan idol who changes his entire personality, appearance and habits (on request of his manager), until you can’t recognize him. 
Yan idol who pushes you away in favor of his famous peers, he reschedules your hangouts and brushes you off.
Yan idol’s popularity grows and so does his ego, at first you two have simple arguments. (he didn’t do his half of the chores, he didn’t pick you up from work, those sort of things) Then he starts to berate you, insisting that he was never truly your friend and only hung out with you because of pity. 
Yan idol who regrets those words the moment he says them, trying to repair your friendship with faux apologies. But it doesn’t work, you kick him out of your house, you tell him that you never want to hear from him again. 
He relents, saying it doesn’t matter as he storms out of your house, and tries to avoid his luggage as you throw it onto the yard. The two of you have a shouting match, then he’s ushered away by his manager (who had heard of the commotion via paparazzi).
When he’s safely hidden away in the car tears begin to fall and the guilt he feels fully sets in, the days pass and he tries to reconnect with you. But you reject his calls, you blocked his number and you won’t answer any letter he sends you.
Eventually his manager has had enough and tells Yan Idol that he needs to move on, that if he doesn’t start to focus on his career then he’ll be let go.
Yan idol who relents, giving in to his manager’s demands and trying to forget you. (It’s difficult, everywhere he looks he’s reminded of you.)
Yan idol who, after many months have passed, has somewhat successfully put you out of his mind. (He’s made different friends, friends within his tax bracket)
However this all changes when he sees you at a meet and greet, you’ve come with some friends, you don’t seem happy to be here. But you’re here and everything he ever felt for you comes rushing back.
He smiles (brighter than he ever has) when you and your friends approach his booth, when you and your friends are standing in front of him and you look at him. It’s almost like you recognize him, but then you look away. (Why did you look away? Don’t you recognize him? Don’t you want to be with him again?)
He tries to get your attention, but you tell him you don’t want his autograph, that you’re only here for your friends. (You definitely recognize him, you just don’t want to admit it. He thinks you’re just scared, you’re worried that he’s still upset. But he isn’t, he just wants you back, that’s all.)
Yan idol who makes the impromptu decision to invite you and your friends over (to the manager’s chagrin). 
Yan idol who incapacitates your friends and then kidnaps you.
Yan idol who’s overjoyed to have you back in his arms, he holds you close and ignores your pleas of freedom. 
Yan idol who continues performing as though nothing changed (somehow he managed to avoid being charged for the incapacitation of your friends, and the police are encourage to ignore any reports of you missing)
Yan idol who continues to gain popularity with every concert he puts on, then when it’s over he comes home to you, and acts as though the two of you were married. (Despite how much you struggle and fight)
Yan idol who’s blissfully ignorant of your anger and frustration, who interprets your actions and attempts to escape as a way of expressing your betrayal towards him.
Yan idol who promises that he’ll never leave you again, that he’ll always be here for you.
(Not my best work, but not my worst work. Either way, enjoy this short fanfic and feel free to comment.)
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hyewka · 4 months
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warnings. sub!tyun, noona!reader, desperate shit, degrading, use of whore/slut, handjob
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flirt freshman!taehyun who, even if he looks polite and at times would even be described as cute, is definitely a heartbreaker. stringing along, fucking, then ghosting.
you see right through his nice guy act when he subtly hits on you, flashing you his white pearls, blinding smile that show off his dimpled cheeks and the way his eyes form into crescents, his simple charms almost, almost having an effect on you. but you know better, you’ve already passed this chapter of your life, getting yourself fucked over by cute assholes. so you reject any and all advances that he makes on you, even as so far as to completely ignore him whenever he addresses you in a group setting.
you wanted to protect yourself, because again, you knew better. but what you dont realize is how often your blatant rejections have been either straight up cruelly humiliating or just plain harsh to the younger boy. not until you’re stuck with taehyun as you awkwardly wait in the car for your friends.
“why dont you like me?” he starts, quiet as he looks out the window. you turn to look at him, a little astonished that he decided to confront you. then you quickly recollect yourself, clearing your throat.
“who told you that?”
he scoffs, a sneer retching his expression. “you’re kidding aren’t you? i don’t think i know anybody more repulsed with me than you. everyone can see it. you almost jumped out of the car when they told you i was going to sit in the back tonight.”
it’s like hes been keeping all of his thoughts behind a lock with how fast everything spilled out of his mouth and you take in a breath. “okay now that’s an exaggeration.”
“not really.”
then it falls silent again, hearing the distant horns of cars and you awkwardly shift. he’s right, its not.
then suddenly, his eyes shift from the window to you, and the eye contact catches you off guard, you can make out the slight furrow of his brows and the small pout that rests on his lips—you’ve never seen him look like that. you avert your gaze almost immediately.
but he’s still staring. and it has you nervously tapping your finger on your lap.
“i like you, noona.”
your eyes widen a little. not because of the confession, you knew it was coming eventually. something about this variation of gentleness with his voice that you don’t think you’ve quite heard…ever coming from a man has your heart beat just a little faster. noona? its nothing new coming from taehyun, but your hands still slight dig into the fabric of your skirt. “if that wasn’t already obvious enough.” he says bitterly with a non humored laugh.
you spend the entire night, staring at your blank empty google doc, wallowing in all thoughts related to taehyun. it kind of pisses you off that he’s managed to chip a little away from your wall, you usually disperse any thought that comes up in your head that has to do with him. but now you choose to give yourself a leeway, just a little to think over whether he was being genuine, and whatever happened in the car was taehyun serving his heart on the platter to be so…vulnerable, or if it was just the last trick up his sleeve to lure you in like a toy he can’t have.
but then you remember the little features—the way his brows slightly turned up, the way his bottom lip instinctively stuck out, just a tiny bit—the way his eyes twinkled, just somewhat, as cliché as it is to say, it felt genuine, real.
when taehyun sends you a text that night, with a string of other unread messages from weeks or days ago before it—you come to the conclusion that he likes you, really likes you.
sorry, ignore what i said today
i don’t want you feeling uncomfortable around me any more than you do
your heart swells a little, simultaneously feeling the guilt conscience slowly creeping up on you. maybe you really did misread him this entire time.
so imagine your surprise when the next time you see taehyun, a week later, it’s at a frat party, looking down at a girl clinging onto his arms with those same twinkling eyes, smile, dimples, gentle look—eventually laughing then biting down on his lips as he looks away, the red on tips of his ears making you fume more than you’d admit. you don’t know what it was, what exactly made you insane enough to stomp over to him in long strides, wobbly pushing through the drunks, seeing red as you grab taehyun by the arm when he’s of reach—the surprised look on his face only lasting for a second before you furiously turn around, dragging him away from the confused girl that he was getting way too flirty with.
he could’ve easily shaken off your grip, it was weak, but he followed, he let you take him, only when you push him in a non occupied room and lock the door does he finally say something.
“hey, what the fuck was that—”
then you go for it. throwing all logical justifications and reasoning, you pull him into you harshly by the collar of his shirt, crashing your lips onto his. you don’t know what you expected, up to now it felt like you’ve been on airplane mode, but you know it wasn’t what taehyun returns. even if youre the one who came onto him first, he kisses back even more passionately, leaning into you, so quick to be receptive, hands going up to your cheeks as he lets you walk him hard into the door, latching onto your lips as if its a taste of a drug that has him hooked right from the first dose.
he’s so…desperate, it scares you, and turns you on at the same time. every time you try to pull away a little he reels you back almost immediately following your lips, the kiss becoming open mouthed as he breathes in and gets more and more messy, sloppy—he’s so sloppy, it’s the last thing you expected from him.
you finally manage to pull away, both of you catching your breath, with his lips glistening and red, mouth agape, chest heaving, up and down as he stares stunned.
“wha—um, so—fuck, sorry, no wait—” hes stumbling over his words. again, something taehyun never does. whenever hes spoken to you, it always felt so calculated, like every word hes thought over, because it felt so perfect. hes always collected.
you clasp your hand over his mouth, weakly, but he stills shuts up his ramble and jumble of words, blinking at you, with those god damn adorable brown eyes.
“kindly, shut the fuck up.”
his brows twitch a little, but he’s still silent.
your eyes search for something in his, you don’t know what, but it feels like you’ve gotten a green light, sighing. “i wanna fuck you.”
“shit.” he marvels, feeling his breath against your palm, his eyes still just as wide. you don’t know what exactly he’s thinking but if the dick already poking against your thigh was any indication, it was that he wanted it. really bad.
you slip your hand off his lips, then you whisper, fixated on how plump they are, “open your mouth.”
he blinks confused, hesitant until you take it upon yourself to rub your thigh against the tent in his pants, having him almost immediately buckle as he lets out a sinful groan. you should know he’s probably not into what you’re into, so you ease into it, testing the waters as you press yourself flush against him, rubbing your leg up and down against his clothed dick. “feel good?”
“y-yeah, shit, noona, please touch me.”
“i am touching you,” you swipe your hand over his bottom lip, fuck, they really are pretty. and so kissable. you’re shocked you haven’t kissed them sooner.
“no, i want your hand.”
you scoff, he’s so confident with what he wants, and so demanding. bratty. he’s probably so used to dominating. “this isn’t enough? me getting off your crusty dick isn’t enough for you? you’re feeling good, aren’t you?”
you press harder and with no consent of his own, his breaths knocked out of him, a slight squeak by the end that has his ears running red again. your thumb slips into his mouth, easing into it, slowly, before you fully press on his tongue as the friction of your knees against his cock gets more and more frantic and torturous. “you tell me you like me then decide i’m not worth the headache, a week later you run off to another innocent girl you’ll try to break the heart of after getting your fill. someone needs to keep you in check for becoming such an asshole, no? do you have no shame?” you mock, feeding him another finger in his mouth so he can’t retort like you know the smartass in him would do.
he sucks on them, surprising you as you feel his tongue licking eagerly…fuck, how badly did you misread him?
but you can tell with the way his eyes involuntarily water, and the way he shakes his vehemently, he still has the audacity to deny everything.
you scoff, slipping them out of his mouth, string of his saliva coating your fingers and shoving that hand down his pants, promplty grabbing his dick, marveling at the soft, wet feel. he already spilled so much pre-cum—slut. he likes this.
“you don’t like me, you have no right to be jea—hahhh..fuck, you can’t be jealous, you c-can’t. shit, faster, faster please noona, noona…” he whines, delirious as he gets lost at the feeling of your hand, bucking his hips, clearly getting frustrated with how irritatingly slow you’re tugging at his dick.
“i don’t. i don’t like you. i don’t like slutty men who’re bad.”
he whimpers, and fuck does that noise have you pooling your underwear.
“how have i been bad? how? i’m always good to you, i always—”
you twist your hand a little and his head immedietely falls back against the door, mouth hung open as he lets out pathetic, needy pants, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“like it? is it how you imagined it’d feel to have my hands wrapped around your cock?” you press, kissing down his jawline, hand letting out wet sounds as you jerk him off with more speed
“yes, yes, so much better noona, so much—” he chokes on his own words when you suck on his neck, feeling him let out shuddering breaths. cute.
when you use your other hand to trail up under his shirt, feeling up his muscle, you can hear him gulp, and for whatever reason, it turns you on even more.
“fuck, you’ve been trying to dom me, haven’t you?” he breathes out.
you let out an airy laugh out of your nose, grazing your thumb over his nipple, the hitch of his breath being your undoing. “i have been domming you—this entire time. what, don’t like it when a womans in charge?”
he shakes his head immediately, “no, no, i like it. i really do, i like it a lot. i like it when its you, noona.”
even when you have his mind sent to overdrive, he still knows exactly what to say to have your heart racing, it’s dangerous.
“hm?” you hum, throat dry, trying to forget the comment thats repeating over and over in your head. he likes it when its you. you scoff a laugh, “you really know how to get a girl going huh?”
“would treat you right. give me a chance noona, i’ll treat you like a queen.”
“a queen?” you laugh, then pretend to ponder on it as you play with his bud more, his dick leaking through your hand—he’s enjoying it all too much. “think would like goddess more.”
he moans wantonly when you thumb his tip, then transitioning to jacking off his shaft in frantic speed, it gets him delirious. “goddess, goddess, fuck—i’ll treat you like a goddess baby, swear.”
“sure you wouldn’t ghost me?”
his breath hitches again, head dipping into your shoulder, jaw practically hung open, mix of moans and whines spilling out of his mouth dumbly—who would’ve thought, huh? “never. so pretty, you’re so pretty and smart, and and—”
“such a slut, just want your dick touched and you’ll say anything.”
you feel him shake his head, still panting heavily as he grabbles onto you for support. he’s clingier than you expected, he holds onto you so often.
“faster…faster please, ‘m sososo close.” he sobs, his shaky breath fanning on your shoulder.
you chuckle, giving him what he wants, the wet squelching sounds heightening until he breaks. “gonna—gonna-” he spills before he could even finish his sentence, with a high pitched noise he cums in his pants, no doubt creating a big stain in the area of his crotch.
well, shit.
but when he lifts his head, a dopey smile on his face, eyes glazed over still, you think he might not mind all too much.
############
note. long overdue sub taehyun and a noona smut from me 🙏 did they fuck. no. will there be a future continuation of this au. perhaps.
4K notes · View notes
lollixp0p · 2 months
Text
The Video (18+)
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Pairing: Best friend!Hwang Hyunjin x afab!reader
Genre: Smut (MDNI), bit of feelings
Word count: just under 3k!
Warnings: Idol!au, subby!Hyunjin, slightly perv!reader, recording, (maybe a bit dub con because he doesn't mean to send it but reader watches it anyway), mommy kink, masturbation (both but separately), Hyunjin fantasizes about reader, reader fantasizes about Hyunjin, lmk if I missed anything!!
Summary: Hyunjin finally gets some alone time after weeks of hard work and decides to use his time to... relax. The next day he ends up sending you something on accident that sets off a big change in your lives, with or without either of you really realising.
Note: My first ever fic!! :3 Inspired by a video I saw on phub. (@cbini (Ems isn't on Tumblr rn she still wanted to be tagged so I hope it's ok), @comet-falls, @hyunsvngs, @mnwrld and @skz-hell lmao hello everyone, writing blog reveal!!😁 here's this fic I've mention to all of you as an anon<3 (depending on who you are I'm either ❄️anon, 🐾anon or sounding anon😳)). To anyone reading this please give me literally any feedback (comment, reblog, anything!), I want to know if this is good or not since it's my first fic🙏😣
Please do not under any circumstance copy, translate, or repost my works!
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It's been exactly three weeks since Hyunjin's had any time for just himself, though it feels like months at this point.
Recently everyone's been running around like headless chickens and between vocal trainings, dance practices and the studio, there hasn't been much time to just relax and recharge. Preparing for a new album really is the busiest time of an idols life.
There hasn't even been time to see family or friends, which is common during busy spells like this, but always dissapointing to think about. Now even more so, with how much he's been wishing to spend time with you, one of his closest friends... who also happens to be his crush. Not that he'd ever let you know though, not in a very long time.
It feels almost like a blessing, getting back to the dorms from practice late in the evening and realising... he's got the place all for himself, at least until his roommates get back from the studio.
Changbin had messaged him earlier, telling him that they'd probably be there well past midnight, so there was no use waiting up for them. To him though, this was the very opposite of an issue. With that much free time, he'd definitely be able to... make himself comfortable, so to speak.
See, not having time to relax also means he'd basically had no time to get off. The best he'd been able to do had been quick little sessions barely once a week in the shower right before passing out on his bed from the exhaustion of working hard.
The realisation that he'd be able to do anything he wants during his time alone is enough to get his dick twitching in his jeans and he decides the shower can wait until later.
Hyunjin goes to his room and locks the door after himself even though he's alone, it's just become a habit after so many years living with his members. He sets his bag down next to his bed and thinks through his plan.
Hyunjin has a little secret, which is that he loves recording himself do dirty things that range from more vanilla to much less vanilla. Something about the thrill of being recorded even if no one will ever see it just... makes him so fucking horny.
He opens the camera of his phone, puts it to video mode and presses record. Moving his hand off the lense and setting it down where he normally sets it, on the carefully placed pile of books on his desk, he sits down on his bed.
"Hmm... I hope the angle's good... It's been so long since I've had time for this", Hyunjin sighs with a pout and brushes his hair out of his eyes. He knows the camera won't see it though because he's made sure the stand, his pile of books, is at a level that cuts off his head perfectly.
Hyunjins hands run down his body slowly and he exhales deeply, just loud enough to get picked up by his phone. Once they reach his jeans he unbuttons them, unzips the zipper, then pulls the jeans down just enough to expose his underwear. Hyunjin pulls his shirt up over his stomach to be held in place under his chin, rubs his hand over his bulge and hums.
It's been so long since the last time he's been able to take his time making himself feel good. It's almost embarrassing how quickly he's getting hard.
He takes his dick out his boxers and then spits on the palm of his right hand. It's dirty and wet but it just turns him on even more. He grabs his dick with the hand and slowly moves his fist up and down, to spread the saliva and precum all over his dick to make the slide easier and wetter but to also get himself to full hardness.
"A-ah, ohh... that's so good... Feels-fuck, feels so good", Hyunjin sighs. It really won't take him too long to cum, he just knows it. He's been pent up for far too long.
He tries to think of something to help his issue and immediately thinks of you, no matter how embarrassed or dirty it makes him feel.
When you first started showing up in the dirtiest corners of his mind he felt so ashamed. Now it doesn't matter to him anymore. You'll never find out so why feel bad?
He continues to move his hand on his dick while thinking of you. The last time the two of you had time to hang out together you'd worn the lowest cut shirt he'd ever seen on you. He had tried so hard to act normal around you but whenever you bent down he'd been able to see into your shirt.
"Haah, fuck..." , he squeezes himself a little harder at the memory. Everytime you moved he could see your bra poking out from the top, black and lacy. The entire time he'd been doing his best to not bust in his pants. Oh, what he'd give to be able to see your tits. They always looked so soft and they'd probably fit perfectly into his palms.
Whenever the both of you would hang out at yours, watching movies and just hanging out, you never bothered to wear a bra. Why would you? It is your house where you want to be as comfortable as possible.
The feeling of laying down on your couch watching a movie with you on top of him, in just a t-shirt, will end up driving him mad one day. Everytime he'd felt your nipples poking into him he'd almost moaned out loud.
"Hngh... Oh my god, please... m-mommy!", he lets out pathetically, moving his fist faster. God he just wants you to use him, to do anything you want to him. The thought makes him whine desperately.
One of the most common fantasies for him is you on top of him using him to get off, not caring about if he's close or not. You'd sit on his face and ride it until you cum. He could probably cum untouched like that. All he'd need was tasting you and seeing you cum, just for him.
All the sudden he remembers the phone recording him and he shudders. He imagines what your reaction would be to seeing him like this. Would you be disgusted or delighted? Would you tell him what to do and how to touch himself? Maybe you'd touch him... He hopes you would.
"Mommy... please touch me, aah- oh!", he runs his thumb over the head of his cock just right and his thighs twitch but he keeps them open, in perfect view to the camera.
Throwing his head back he imagines you riding him. You'd be so tight and wet around him. Maybe you'd tie his hands behind his back so he wouldn't be able to touch you... he'd really like that. You'd feel godly around him, Hyunjin thinks.
"Fuck, oh fuck! Mommy I'm-haah, I'm so close, please!", his dick twitches desperately. You're so gorgeous, to him you're the sexiest person he's ever seen. He feels himself getting so close that tears spring to his eyes.
"Ah- 'm gonna... mommy, gonna cum...!", he whines out long and loud. It takes Hyunjin two more strokes to let go and he cums the hardest he's cum in weeks. He doesn't even register whispering your name. Hyunjin leans back on his left hand and keeps stroking himself through it.
The feeling is overwhelming, so much so that his thighs start twitching pathetically and the tears in the corners of his eyes fall. He's getting incredibly overstimulated but he keeps going, wanting to keep enjoying the feeling, just a bit more.
He squeezes himself one last time and suddenly everything on him feels gross and dirty. He's just had the best orgasm in weeks so it's no surprise that he came a lot, everywhere. He even managed to get some on his chin.
"Fuuck... Did you-haah... did you enjoy that?", he chuckles to the phone. It takes a while for him to come down from the high, the twitchiness and the feeling of euphoria lingering in his body. Once he's capable of standing up again he stops the video.
With his body feeling like jelly, he takes off all his clothes, drops them into his hamper and prepares to shower, at last.
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Hyunjin wakes up to his alarm the next day feeling more refreshed than he's felt in weeks. He shuts off the still ringing alarm and quickly gets up from his bed to get dressed and go eat breakfast.
Checking the calendar on his phone to make sure he knows his schedule for today, he makes a note of one thing; he'd have a lot of time alone at the dorms today too, since he's only got a dance practice and a recording session today, which obviously means 3racha will stay behind to stress about their songs while Hyunjin can return early. Maybe this time he should continue the latest piece of art he's been working on after he gets back?
Hyunjin gets through the day well enough.
After eating breakfast he messages you a "Good morning pretty <3 please remember to drink water!" like every morning when he has time for it. He gets to the practice room only five minutes late, which is a record this early in the morning, because usually he ends up sleeping in at least ten minutes (which makes Chan scold him for being such a heavy sleeper).
He does well at practice, even though he ends up a little exhausted. That's nothing new though, with how hard they always work to be the best they can be.
The rest of the members leave to take a break but Hyunjin decides to stay behind to film the solo choreography he's been working on for fun. Once he's happy with how it's turned out, it's time for him to go record his lines.
The recording session goes smoothly, without hundreds of retakes and everyone's satisfied with the result. Afterwards they decide to order some take-out, as a reward for a job well done... and also because they're all feeling too lazy to even think about going to the dorms to cook.
While eating Hyunjin finally realises to check his phone again. "Good morning, take care of yourself too!! :)" is your response to what he sent earlier. It's nothing more than a kind response but it makes him grin to himself like the fool in love he is.
"Yaaah!! Hyunjinnieee, what's making you smile so beautifully?", Changbin leans towards him with his signature flirting-with-Hyunjin grin, mouth half full of rice.
"It's nothing," Hyunjin responds back to him cheeks red, "and don't talk with your mouth full hyung... Do you not have any respect?"
Changbin decides to drop it in favor of eating more delicious food.
"Oh come on... we wanna know!!", Han pouts at him from his seat on the couch in the room. Hyunjin shoves another mouthful of food in his mouth to avoid the embarrassement of explaining how a single text messaged from you manages to make his heart beat out of his chest.
Once Hyunjin's done eating he's free to go back to the dorms and just like he suspected the rest of his dormmates stay behind to work some more, although they all whine at him to stay to explain the previous mystery. He declines and they all keep their sad puppydog eyes on him until he's out the door.
He keeps texting you during his ride, all the way to the dorms. Once he's in his room Hyunjin decides to just change into some clean clothes. He's too excited to talk to you and get to painting, he can wash up later.
He lays in his bed to keep texting you and at some point your conversation changes from how your day's been going to talking about dancing and he mentions how he just today filmed a new choreography bit he's made for fun.
❣️:
Can I see what you've been working on? :)
I'm sure it's really good, you always are!!
Jinnie:
Well... since you asked so nicely😉
[video sent]
Quickly sending the video Hyunjin exits out the messaging app, feeling so giddy he can't help but squirm around on his bed. He still can't believe someone like you could be interested in seeing him dance.
It might seem like a small thing for most but he feels himself turning red just thinking about the way you look at him while he talks about something so important to him. It makes the butterflies in his stomach every time you're near go crazy. It's so attentive, like you actually care and are interested in his interests... and maybe even...?
'No' , he thinks to himself. There's probably no way you could ever actually be interested in him, not in the same way he's interested in you at least.
He leaves his phone charging and finally gets out of bed to go to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He'd need it if he wanted to stay up late to work on his newest art piece.
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Hearing the familiar 'ping' notification of receiving a message makes you open your phone again and just like you thought, Hyunjin had sent you the video of his latest masterpiece of a choreography. Not waiting a second you press the video just to see.... Hyunjin take his hand off the camera and set the phone down on the desk in his room he draws on. He sits down on the edge of his bed and says something, you aren't really sure what, because the volume's too low. In confusion you turn it up more.
Hyunjin sighs and reaches up to move his hair out his face, probably. You can't see it though, because the camera cuts his face perfectly off frame. Suddenly his hands run down his body to the button on his jeans. He opens it and starts undoing the zipper next. You just look at the video in shock. 'He isn't about to... to take them off is he?', you think to yourself, just as he pulls the jeans down enough to expose his white boxers and then palms his bulge.
Should you stop watching? Keep watching? How long has it even been playing? How long does it keep playing? While you wonder this you almost miss Hyunjin pull his hard dick out of his underwear and spit on his palm and... Oh God...
You've now done something you can never take back. The downright sinful view of his cock is something you don't think you're ever going to be able to forget. How do you even face him after this? After watching him grasp his dick in his hand and pump it a couple of times to spread the spit and precum around.
You exit the video, panting and absolutely soaking through your underwear. Your other hand rushes to your face to feel your cheeks. They're burning and feel like you've been standing out in the sun for hours, when in reality all you've done is accidentally watch your best friend play with himself.
You struggle to decide what to do with the video and in the end save the video without much thinking, then delete the message of it and decide to notify him of his mistake. As long as he doesn't know you saved it, it should be fine, right?
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It takes Hyunjin less than 10 minutes to make and get the coffee. He returns to his room humming the tune of a song he's had on repeat recently. Setting the coffee down on the desk and taking his phone off from the charger he notices new messages from you.
❣️:
Uhm...😕
Hyunjin, I don't think you meant to send that.
He looks at his screen confused. What did you mean by that? He...
Oh God.
Did he send the wrong video?
Frantically opening the video he sent earlier he sees himself, in video, move his hand off the phone camera and set it down the desk near his bed and sit down. Oh no...
"Hmm... I hope the angle's good... It's been so long since I've had time for this", video Hyunjin sighs and reaches up to move his hair from his eyes. His head may be out of frame but he clearly remembers pouting while saying this. He watches himself slowly unbutton and unzip his pants, adjusting them so that his boxers are clearly visible in frame. In the video his hand drifts towards his crotch slowly, teasingly.
He quickly exits the video and promptly shoves his head under his pillow and yells. He'd accidentally sent the wrong video while hurrying to get a cup of coffee. How could he have messed up this bad? In his panic, it takes him a moment to respond.
Jinnie:
Oh god
I'm so sorry!!
Please don't watch that!
❣️:
Don't worry!!!
I stopped watching the moment you started unzipping your pants😖
I saw nothing, promise!🙏 It's been deleted already!! 
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Little does he know though, you'd kept the video. You're not really sure why, but subconciously your brain keeps screaming' to finish it later, of course'.
...
Fuck it, you don't think you can wait until later.
Taking a deep breath, you open your gallery to find the video he sent you. You hesitate for a second but press play anyway. You can feel how you're already soaking through your underwear but pay no mind to it yet.
You watch him do the things you've seen already, all the way until he spits in his hand... and you pause the video. 'Is it right to watch this? I mean, he didn't mean to even send it...', you think to yourself.
But the thought of seeing him touch himself, to hear him make the sweetest noises you could ever in your wildest dreams imagine him making drives you on.
Pressing play again you dip your fingers into your pants. You rub yourself over your underwear and oh my god... you can't believe the wetness you feel after less than a minute of watching the video. You focus on the phone you're holding in your other hand and finally move your fingers into your underwear to directly touch your pussy.
On your screen you see Hyunjin start to stroke himself faster, the head of his dick a dark pink, you can feel his desperation through the screen. Without thinking you move your fingers to your clit and start rubbing it in circles, aided by the wetness of your leaking pussy.
He moans out loud and even though you can't hear it through the fog in your head, you know he's desperate. You move your fingers down to your hole and dip two of them in. You're so wet you barely need to even stretch yourself out and then he does it.
"Hngh... Oh my god, please... m-mommy!"
You push your fingers deeper and your pussy lets out he lewdest squelch which in turn makes you close your eyes desperately in pleasure. 'Mommy? When he masturbates he calls out for mommy??', the thought makes you lose your mind. You think about what it would be like if he called you mommy in the throes of pleasure.
You want to make him follow every command you give him. The way he'd look up at you on his knees with you standing above him. Maybe you could make him suck on a strap? He'd look so ridiculously delicious with his mouth full, drool dripping down his cheeks.
You add another finger and start rubbing at your clit with your thumb at the same time. The feeling makes you whimper and imagine his hands on you, teaching him how to touch you perfectly. You're getting so close and you remember to focus your screen again.
Hyunjin looks absolutely disheveled. His dick is red and throbbing, you can tell he's getting close. His voice is another thing that gives him away. He's whiny and his voice keeps cracking every time he opens his mouth. Hyunjin bucks into his hand and moans.
"... mommy, gonna cum...!", he strokes himself twice more and then finally cums. You're so close it's maddening. All the sudden you hear him... whisper your name?
It makes you go off the edge and your entire body clenches and seizes while you silently cry out from all the pleasure you're feeling. Your walls suck in your fingers with how you're clenching around them. On the screen Hyunjin twitches violently, working himself through the end of his orgasm.
You pull your fingers out of yourself and slump down on your bed exhausted, but the last 20 seconds of the video that's now over haunts you. Did you hear him right?
You gather strength to pick up your phone again and rewind the video to the part where he cums and turn the volume almost all the way up. Admittedly you end up fixating on the way his dick looks and face twists in pleasure when he cums and then he says, or more like whisper your name. Your brain blanks.
"Fuuck... Did you-haah... did you enjoy that?", he chuckles to the phone, sits in place for a bit to properly come down and then gets up to stop the video.
You're wet, confused and you can feel your heart beat out of your chest. What do you do now? How can you ever face him normally after that... Does he feel the same way you do? Is he sure he didn't mean to send it?
It's all too much to think about, so you decide that instead of thinking about it you'll clean yourself up and... crawl into a hole where no one will ever find you. Probably. The only thing you know for sure is you definitely won't be sleeping tonight.
© lollixp0p 2024 | please do not under any circumstance copy, translate, or repost my works
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2K notes · View notes
strayerthings · 2 months
Text
"I've got you"(18+)
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Synopsis: Caught in a stressful situation, you do the only thing you can think of - texting your friend's older brother, Chan. However, was that really the better option?
Content info: Chan x afab reader, one-shot, idol Chan, friend's older brother trope, fluff/smut/slight angst
General Warnings: Smut (specifics under the cut), unwilling drug use and comedown, swearing
Word count: 10.5k
Strayerthings Masterlist
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a/n: Hey readers! Long time no see - hope your holidays were fantastic. As promised, I'm releasing this in January. Please let me know your thoughts and don't forget to reblog! There is a sensitive scene filled with macho bullshit at the start but it doesn't last long. I must say, writing for Chan is always such a ride. Anyways, enjoy! 🖤🌻
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Smut: dom/sub dynamics, dry sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (don't), dacryphilia (crying/begging kink)
Explicit content - minors do not interact.
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“Look at Y/n for example, she’s hot but also a gaming nerd obsessed with Kpop so she hardly gets any. We should be going after girls like that since they’re not the sluts showing their tits on OnlyFans.”
You slid further into the couch, trying to make yourself look small. Your mind was a haze and you could hardly stand up for yourself like you normally would. Your colleague was making the most ridiculous, sexist statements that screamed ‘Andrew Tate’ but all you could do was try and hide your shaking nerves. It had gotten so bad that your teeth were chattering. Jack had always been nice to you and you thought he was a solid guy but a different side was brought out when he revealed the party favours. You had accepted the invitation to his house warming without worrying about what the night would hold - your plan was to show up, act impressed at the large space, have one drink and then bounce. It couldn’t have been further from the truth because now you were sitting in a room with around six people, coming down from the coke they had pressured you into taking (you were too inebriated to say no) and he was spouting all this bullshit about how women were always out to get each other and kissing you all over your face. The more invasive he got about your body, your sex life and the inferiority of women, the more you froze up. You had never felt so unsafe before so you stumbled to the bathroom, trying to think fast - who could you message to come get you? It was 3 am in the city and most people were either too drunk or asleep. Who could you count on to always answer the phone? Who would you feel safe with whilst coming down? The questions were racing through your brain and you were about to give up when a name hit you square in the face. He was here. You thought hard about this - he had arrived the previous day and you hadn’t seen him in years. Would you really want your friend’s older brother seeing you high? Yes, you had kept in touch over the years - he had even gotten you a VIP ticket at a discount price - but this was too much. Suddenly, a knocking startled you out of your reverie.
“Y/n?”
It was Jack.
“What are you doing in there? Do another line with us because you’re looking way too sober, you can stay over!”
Oh fuck no.
You texted Chan.
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You didn’t know how much time had passed - perched miserably on the couch, staring into space when a banging was heard over the music. The others looked at each other warily and a girl proceeded to open the door, widening her eyes. In strode a medium-length broad-chested man wearing a tight black t-shirt, ripped jeans and a black cap pulled low over his face. His silver earring glinted in the soft lighting. He tipped his head at her slightly and then lifted his head, serious eyes searching for something. When they landed on you, his jaw clenched. Hard. You struggled to focus but you were pretty sure you looked wrecked. Crossing the room, he knelt down at your side, glaring at the guy next to you who shifted further away. 
“Y/n.”
“Channie,” you breathed out, relief etched across your features.
He cupped your cheek softly and sucked in a breath, finally taking note of the situation. When he saw the white lines of powder on the mirror in the middle of the table, his head whipped back to you with a questioning frown - you could only nod in response, too ashamed to admit to it verbally. His frown deepened and you instinctively cowered back in response - why did you think it was a good idea to text him? But, as if he knew what you were thinking, he grabbed your hand and rubbed soothing circles into the back of it, trying his best to school his expression. 
“Knew it was too good to be true.”
Why couldn’t he just shut up? Chan shifted himself so that he was facing the rest of the room, scowl deepening with every second. 
“What?”
Jack eyed him from where he was pacing, “I said it was too good to be true. Here I was, thinking that Y/n was so innocent - I was actually telling her to go to Korea to hook up before she grows old in order to satisfy her curiosity. With that hair, those tits and face - they would definitely notice her! But I had no idea she had already found herself one. Careful, Y/n, don’t turn into one of those loose bitches.” 
There was so much to unpack here and your eyes widened in horror, frustrated tears pooling in your eyes. How dare this asshole speak about a culture like that? All you did was appreciate Kpop, the fact that he had implied it was a fetish for you had your brain spiraling. You didn’t even care about the remarks about your body - he had insinuated that you were sleeping with Chan and that you were only sleeping with him because he was Korean. You didn’t know where to look, humiliated and furious beyond belief. You opened your mouth, about to rip him a new one, but the man next to you had stood up, hands balled lightly into fists and eyes stern.
“Say one more thing to her and I’ll tear your head off.” 
You couldn’t look up, too anxious to lift your head but the tone of his voice sent a ripple of fear through you. You could see it mirrored in the others’ faces because they immediately grabbed Jack and whispered in his ear. He casually sat down with a grin.
“I’m just messing around, man, what you do with your free time is not my problem. You sound like you’re from around here - have a line with us, let’s chat. What’s your type?”
Oh, this guy was deranged. Chan turned to you again, trying to meet your eyes in order to assess the damage. When he saw the panic he gently helped you up, pushing past the others with an arm around your shoulders. He silently led you down the stairs and while you waited for an uber, he held you close. You shook in his warmth, his strong arms encircling you - you were too embarrassed to look at him and he knew this so he whispered soothing words into your ear. He helped you into the car and when the driver set off, he started to talk.
“You all right?”
You studiously avoided him and he gently touched your hand, waiting a while before trying again. 
“Y/n, look at me.”
You sighed and looked at him from the corner of your eye. He noticed something outside the window and straightened up.
“We can talk inside.”
Inside? You saw that you were entering an underground carpark of a hotel and turned to face him fully with an eyebrow cocked. 
“You can’t honestly believe I would drop you off at your place after all that’s happened, right? Especially in this condition…” His voice had softened and he was back to stroking your hand. You just blinked and turned away again, feeling his hand retract. 
When the car stopped, he opened the door for you, guiding you in with a gentle hand on the small of your back. He pulled out a keycard and you were ushered into an elevator. A thought struck you and you forced out a hushed question.
“Chan, we’re not going to your room, are we? What if the others found out?”
“Don’t worry, I booked another room as soon as you texted.”
Oh. You felt something that you couldn’t identify. Why would he do all this for you? Where was the boy who would push you into the pool as kids, who’d lock you out the house when you came over? You studied him surreptitiously - at least, you thought you were discreet. It had been years since you’d last seen him - you had obviously seen photos and videos, being a fan of their music, but nothing compared to the real thing. His shoulders had broadened, his face had become more defined and the look in his eyes had matured. When did his arms turn into those? Even in your beaten down state, you could appreciate this evolution. But you shook your head, you would not think of him like that. You hadn’t really spoken to his sister since you grew apart in first year but it was still slightly odd to find her brother attractive. You’d had a puppy crush on him back then but wasn’t that normal? It didn’t feel normal right now. You felt like a creep and tried not to let your admiration show. He and Lily only had a few years between them and you used to go over there quite often as kids which is why you had exchanged the odd message every couple years or so. He must have seen you as the annoyance of his childhood - especially now. He led you to your room at the end of the corridor, keeping his hand on you. You wished he would let go and just step back.
When you were inside he turned to you.
“Have a seat and I’ll be right back.” 
You grabbed his hand as he tried to walk past you, silently asking him not to leave you. He removed his hand carefully and cupped your face, murmuring, “Don’t worry, I’m just getting you some clothes. Take a shower and I’ll be back before you know it.”
You slowly nodded and took a deep breath, watching him leave then you looked around. The room was magnificent. Everything was lit up in a soft, golden glow and the furniture was plush and new. The bed was monstrous and looked like you would sink straight into the mattress. But none of that registered with you - you felt disgusting. A dark cloud of insecurity had settled over you, chilling you to the bone. You had never done that particular drug before but the comedown was bleak. You felt so vulnerable, convinced that no one would be there for you. If Chan hadn’t been in the country, how would this night have ended? The chill had numbed you, made you apathetic - you were upset but couldn’t get the emotion out. You wandered into the bathroom, hoping the heat from the shower would warm you up and get you to feel something.
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A soft knock on the door had you startling out of your thought process. Chan’s voice came through, telling you he had left the clothes outside the bathroom. You heard his footsteps retreat back into the room. When had he gotten back? You realised you’d been in the shower for a while, trying to get the heat back into your bones but it hadn’t worked. You felt cold. Cold and alone. You wrapped a towel around your shivering shoulders and cracked the door open, swiping an arm out for the clothing. You pulled on the navy blue t-shirt which was wonderfully baggy and settled on your thighs but the pyjama trousers were way too uncomfortable so you decided to forgo those. You were now faced with a dilemma - do you don your underwear or do you go commando in order to separate yourself from the night’s events? You skipped the panties. The shirt was so long that he wouldn’t notice anyway - at least, you hoped not.
You exited the room, still feeling nothing but the biting cold. Chan was settled on a champagne coloured armchair on the other side of the room, freshly showered and dressed in a black t-shirt and soft, cotton shorts. His dark hair was still damp and he was busy running his hand through it, looking tired. As soon as he saw you he froze, eyes raking down your bare legs. You almost felt a spark. Almost. When he noticed you shudder, he nodded towards the bedside table closest to him where a steaming cup of tea sat. You gingerly walked around the bed to his side and opened the duvet, sliding into the bed and propping yourself up against the headboard as gracefully as possible - your mind was still numb yet full of images, you needed this cloying frost to dissipate. 
“Y/n.”
You lifted your mouth from the cup, sighing in defeat as the hot water still did nothing for your nerves. You wanted to scream but the emotion was so deeply embedded into your chest that you couldn’t claw it out. 
“Y/n.”
You met his gaze timidly. He was bent over, resting his elbows on his muscular thighs to be closer to you and you took in every detail. Tired but warm eyes, curly hair, prominent nose and a plush mouth. A plush mouth that was pulled down in a concerned grimace. Again, you almost felt something stir. 
“How are you feeling?”
You cleared your throat and willed yourself to speak but only a whisper was heard, “Better now, thanks to you.”
He narrowed his eyes but did not refute you.
“What happened tonight?”
“I went to a housewarming party and took drugs, that’s all.” You couldn’t bear to go into details, it was all too raw. 
“Did you accept the coke willingly?”
You thought about it, did you consent? To be honest, you couldn’t remember much of how it started.
“Well, I didn’t say no…”
“Were you drunk when they offered you some?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever taken it before?”
“No.”
“Fuck.” 
“I’m sorry..”
Chan snapped his head up from where he had been glaring at the floor and looked at you in confusion, “For what?”
You didn’t want to talk about it but knew you had to since you owed him that much, “For what he said. About you. You have to know - that isn’t - I would never…” Chan made a furious noise at the back of his throat.
“Don’t apologise for that asshole! You have nothing to feel guilty about - how long have we known each other? I know you. You have a kind and beautiful soul. God, when he said those things about you, about your body - I thought I was going to have to bury a corpse. You don’t go near him again, got it?” 
You didn’t respond, looking down at your hands until you felt him remove your cup. 
“Hey. Don’t cry, I’m here now - you’re safe.” You hadn’t even registered the icy droplets running down your cheeks. He grabbed your hand and looked into your eyes, “How are you feeling? Are you sober?”
You numbly nodded your head and stated in a small voice, “I can’t feel anything except the cold - I can’t warm up.” 
“Here, move up.” He slipped into the bed and tugged you down, coaxing you into turning on your side and wrapping his arms around you - effectively spooning you. Your breath hitched in your throat as you finally felt a spark of heat run up your back. Turns out, you needed to feel safe in order to heat up. But it was still not enough. Chan felt you shiver and pulled you closer, not an inch of space between you. He then started talking in order to distract you.
“Are you still a horror fanatic?”
“What?”
“I remember you and Lily being obsessed with those god-awful movies about possession and zombies - remember thinking, how could these munchkins enjoy that stuff? But then, your true colours revealed themselves and I was more terrified of you two, to be honest.”
You chuckled weakly along with him and bit back, “Hey, it’s not my fault you were scared of your own shadow - you made it way too easy to get back at you for all the times you’d bully us.” He shifted behind you with a sound of incredulity, “Excuse me, how was I able to be the bully when two vicious girls were ganging up on me all the time. If anything, I’m the victim here.” He giggled, hugging you tighter instinctively and you bit back a gasp. His face was now buried in your neck and you suddenly lost the ability to breathe. 
“Do you ever talk to Lily?” He murmured against your skin.
Sighing, you felt yourself grow sad again. “No… I let us drift at uni, didn’t make enough effort with all the shit I had going on. I feel so guilty, she must hate -” He cut you off, turning you to face him.
“Hey. No, she doesn’t. I know my sister and she has a tendency to get swept up in her own life, she is just as much to blame and she’ll come around if you reach out. Besides, no one could ever hate you.”
 He stared into your eyes for a couple seconds and you felt yourself heat up some more. But it was still not enough. The frost would dissipate for a few moments and then insidiously pull you back in again. At this point, you didn’t know what to do and he must have recognised the insecurity in your eyes because he gently brushed your hair away from your face. 
“Y/n…” he breathed. “What’s up?”
Your lip trembled. 
“I’m so cold.”
“Still?”
The frustration pulled at his features as his mind raced. He entwined his legs with yours and stroked your hair and then… And then he softly pressed his full lips against your forehead, lingering. The warmth trickled from that point all the way to your toes and you let out a relieved sigh. He took note and rested his forehead against yours - the calm gradually stretched until it twisted into something else, something heavy. It built until he tilted your face up slowly but instead of stopping there, he searched your eyes carefully and found whatever he was looking for because his own widened and you felt his heart race as he pressed his nose against yours. 
You felt dizzy but this was the boost of emotion you were chasing so you closed the distance and brushed your lips against his. It wasn’t fireworks, not by a long shot. It was the comfort you needed which was a million times better. You moved slowly in tandem, experimentally angling your heads and applying different degrees of pressure - when you accepted his silky tongue he melted into your mouth, hand moving down to your hip.
You couldn’t believe this was happening - kissing Channie after all these years was never on the agenda. You were so lost in your head that when he made a strangled noise and pulled back, staring at you in a panic, you were thoroughly confused. Did you do something wrong? Were you a bad kisser? 
“You’re not wearing any underwear!”
Oh. Right. Fuck.
You looked down quickly, realising he had been stroking your naked hip under the shirt. Where his fingers trailed, a line of fire was left in their wake - the desire was clogging your throat. Not enough. He made to disentangle himself but you weren’t about to let that happen so you pulled him back, swinging your leg over his hip, grinding up against his clothed erection. You both keened hard into each other’s mouths, caught up in the situation. The frosty darkness had started to seep from you entirely and you felt the knot unravel in your chest but all of a sudden, Chan pulled back, panic flitting across his face again. His chest was heaving in exertion and something else, you weren’t sure what.
“We can’t… we can’t do this.” 
“Why!” Your outburst shocked the both of you but you didn’t care. Anything to feel. Anything to get rid of the gnawing ache of fear inside of you.
“Please, Chan, please, I need this. I need to feel warm, I need to feel safe, I need to get rid of this pain, I can’t….” You didn’t even notice the tears running down your face in absolute devastation. He quickly moved back in and cupped your face, whispering, “Hey, sshh, sweetheart, you’re okay. You’re okay. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
You quietened down, soft whimpers falling from your lips as he gently pushed you onto your back and caged you in. He lifted up to rip his shirt off and then leaned back over you, bringing his lips down to yours. When you tried to remove yours too, however, he grabbed your wrists to stop you.
“If we’re doing this, we’re doing this my way.” Never breaking eye contact, he parted your legs and settled between them. He brushed your hair to the side and when he started to softly suck a mark into your neck, his hips started rolling. And rolling. And rolling. 
“Fuck, Channie!” 
You were in agony. There was so much, almost too much. His strong arms kept you close, the heat from his shining chest washing over you - you were separated by the thin layer of his cotton shorts but nothing could prevent you from feeling his enormous, leaking member grinding against your pulsing clit. You begged to remove your shirt but he wouldn’t let you, hands staying over the material - he didn’t even caress your breasts. You couldn’t worry about it though, not when he was giving it to you so good. 
“I-I think I’m gonna cum,” you panted against his skin to which he groaned a response. 
“Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby?” He started sucking harsher marks onto your collar bones, speeding up his movements. 
“Cum for me, sweetheart.”
The orgasm ripped through you - it was unlike anything you had ever felt before, the fire spread over you, burning everything in its wake. 
You were finally safe.
When he was sure you had come down from your high, he lifted his head, looking at you. Simply looking at you with blown pupils and you had no idea what he was thinking but, at that moment, you didn’t mind. He kissed you sweetly and rolled off you, spooning you again. Before you drifted off, you heard a faint murmur into your hair.
“Good night, baby girl.”
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The sun was high in the sky when you woke up. When you woke up alone in a hotel room, to be exact. You tried to rack your brain in your sleepy state and it took you a few moments but boy, did it pay off when the memories came rushing back. Chan had brought you here. Chan had brought you here and you’d had dry sex. But wait… You sat up swiftly. Where did he go? Did he not enjoy it? You remembered your mindblowing orgasm but couldn’t remember his. Oh god. You had embarrassed yourself. You had begged him to fuck you and he hadn’t even enjoyed it. You had taken advantage of him in your desperate state and it was a pity fuck. Quite frankly, you wanted to disappear. As you turned around to bury yourself into the pillow, two foreign items on the bedside table caught your eye - a coffee cup and a paper bag. There was no note. Good old Chan, despite thinking you were pathetic, he still took care of you. You grabbed your phone off the table, checking for messages but none were from him. What was interesting was the notification you received about a concert that night - a certain Stray Kids concert you would be attending as a VIP. You sucked in a deep breath and then let out a huge..
“FUCK!”
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“What’s he staring at?” 
“I don’t think it’s a what, I think it’s a who.”
“I can hear you.”
Chan turned around from where he had been standing backstage and the two who had been observing him, Hyunjin and Jisung, took the opportunity to sneak around him. They craned their necks as they located the object of his scrutiny. The smaller crowd had walked in to see their soundcheck and so it was easy to spot you.
“Ahhhh is that the girl you raced to help last night, Ch-rizz-topher?”
“Ooh I can see why, she’s hot!”
“Shut the fuck up, Hyunjin.” Chan rubbed his temple and stared at you again, brows furrowing as he noticed a young guy lead you to your seat, hand on your lower back. He couldn’t blame him though - you looked amazing. You were wearing a tight contraption in your skin colour with red outlines tucked into black jeans, and a black leather jacket thrown over. The corset gave the impression that your torso was bare with blazing streaks across your body and he visibly twitched. Why did you have to wear that? The guilt was eating away at him already. 
“What are you guys staring at?” Minho and Changbin had just joined the fray.
“Chan-hyung’s girl!”
Minho moved closer, “The girl from last night? She’s hot.” 
Changbin eagerly nodded along and Chan could feel his blood pressure rising.
“Guys, she is not my girl. Simply Lily’s friend who needed help.”
“Hey Seungmin! Check out Chan-hyung’s hot girlfriend who happens to be Lily’s friend!”
“Jesus Christ, Jeongin!”
Chan had had enough. He couldn’t have this distracting them right now. They were about to go onstage in a city near his home and they needed to focus. He decided it would be best for everyone if he ignored you so, squaring his shoulders, he said something that he thought would end the discussion.
“She’s like a sister to me.”
“So you mean she’s available? OW, WHAT THE FU-”
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You were right. You had embarrassed yourself last night. There were a number of factors that led up to this conclusion. Firstly, he hadn’t texted you since the incident. You chalked it up to his schedule but you were slightly hurt by the notion that he didn’t want to check up on you. Despite your mortification, you had dressed up really nicely - you weren’t sure why as you would not let it get to you. He was just busy. But now, as he walked down the stage, right past you, he kept his eyes carefully trained away from you. You knew he was aware of you, it was obvious by the way his jaw was clenched. You sighed inwardly - this was awful. Would you get the chance to apologise or would he shut you out completely? At this thought, your throat closed up but you were getting ahead of yourself. One step at a time. 
The concert was incredible. You had never had so much fun in your life despite feeling the underlying stress of the situation. The boys were so talented and gorgeous. You admired Chan and even though you knew you shouldn’t, the events of the previous night flitted through your mind. When he hugged Minho tightly from behind, you felt his arms around you too - soothing you to sleep. When he brushed the hair from Felix’s eyes, you felt his featherlight touch as he dried your tears. When he lifted his shirt you were reminded of the smooth, hard muscles rippling under your fingertips as he brought you to your demise; and when he turned around, you remembered the firmness of that ass, clenching in your grip. Fuck - this was not happening. You were not growing feelings for him, were you? He had simply helped you out platonically and the way he was ignoring you proved that. But you found yourself questioning everything when he pulled his tight pants lower surreptitiously, showing his happy trail and briefs. You saw him look at other girls and your heart dropped - his dimple was on full display for everyone but you… You were shaken from your maudlin thoughts, however, when the other members drew your attention. They seemed to have taken quite a shine to you, completing hearts and throwing big smiles your way. It didn’t seem like a coincidence by the way that Chan visibly tensed up and pulled Hyunjin away from your side of the stage or smacked Changbin over the head when he sat down and stared at you during a speech. How much did they know? They were quite obviously getting a rise out of him and you were kind of enjoying it immensely. You were about to give up hope completely until something finally happened. It was during Red Lights. Chan was directly in front of you when he was doing his floor work and when he lifted himself up somewhat, his eyes locked with yours. You felt the air escape your lungs. The way his revealing jacket gleamed in the red spotlight, making his firm chest glow; the way the sweat trailed down his neck; the way his pretty pink mouth parted. All that made you dizzy but what had you wet was his stare. His stare. The way his dark eyes drove into you, the way his brows furrowed in consternation. You couldn’t decipher what he was feeling but you needed him. You hoped he craved you too. You were royally screwed. 
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The members were backstage while the audience was watching a video, getting ready for the final number. Minho saw Chan nervously darting his eyes to the wall, as if he had suddenly received the gift of X-ray vision. Chuckling lightly, he rested his chin on his shoulder and proceeded to play the part of the devil.
“How you doing?”
“Fine.”
“She’s alone here, right?”
“Yeah. Wait, I mean, I think so?”
“She staying at the hotel again?”
“How did you know where she stayed?” Chan turned to him in confusion. Minho merely smirked which annoyed him further and he turned back around, moving to catch a glimpse of you. His second in command zeroed in again.
“So? She coming with us?”
“No.” Chan grit his teeth, wanting nothing more to do with the situation. Nothing more to do with you.
“But… how will she get home? You can’t expect her to wait outside, in the cold, in the dark, alone, for a random taxi?”
Chan faltered at that. What kind of person would he be if he left you alone without checking up on you? He thought back to how small, vulnerable, scared you looked sitting on that couch and his heart clenched, the anger stirred. He still had your room since he didn’t know how much time you needed to rest so what was stopping him? He didn’t want to think about the answer to that question.
“Fine.” We probably have something to discuss anyway.
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You were singing along with the final number when you heard a voice in your ear, shocking the bejeezus out of you. You turned around to find the young, attractive usher from earlier hovering - he beckoned you closer and told you to meet him by the side door as soon as the audience started filing out. You tentatively agreed, knowing what this meant and wondering what the fuck you were going to say when you were face to face with the man you simultaneously wanted to kick and kiss. As you turned back to the stage you caught him quickly turning his gaze away from the two of you - did you perhaps affect him in the same way? No, surely not. He was probably just annoyed at his protective instincts - that’s what landed you in this mess in the first place.
You realised you had zoned out because when you came to, most were cheering and moving around to leave. This was your cue. You moved to the door behind you and loitered a bit until the staff member came to get you. His name was James and he really was very nice but you couldn’t reciprocate his flirting - not when you were about to meet him. He led you through the corridor all the way to the back of the building and knocked on the door of the green room. You felt a warm sensation on your lower back and noticed his hand resting there - before you could ask him to remove it the door opened, revealing a wet-haired Changbin in fresh clothes. He opened the door with a wide smile and stepped back to let you in. You looked beyond him and saw Chan staring daggers at the man behind you who dropped his hand reluctantly. You thanked him gently and walked in. 
You knew this was a mistake the moment you did because Chan went back to ignoring you, making you feel very out of place. The room was big, couches settled against the walls and make-up stations set up in the middle but, because of the absolute rejection, you felt the walls squeeze you in from all sides. Your heart stuttered and you started to instinctively move back. This was worse than you thought. How would you two ever be able to go back to normal? You wanted to be alone to mourn your childhood but, just as you were about to make your excuses and leave, a hand guided you to the couch where you were gently pushed down. The man followed you swiftly and sat by your side - it was almost invasive. You turned your head and found yourself staring at the most beautiful pair of lips. Hyunjin. His voice was like molten silk, sliding over your nerves, settling you. 
“So what’s your name?”
“Y/n.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
You heard a scoff from somewhere and straightened up, refusing to appear vulnerable. Minho jumped into your line of sight and towered over you, gripping the couch. 
“So. You’re the girl Chan valiantly rescued last night.” He smirked evilly, shooting a look at him who had his back to you, shoulders tensed. He still hadn’t acknowledged you. Minho, undeterred, was on a roll.
“How long have you known each other? Because he was frantic when he got the message from you. You two must be awfully close. Isn’t that right, Chan? I think he’d practically do anything for you.”
You schooled your breathing and answered without thinking, using his childhood nickname, “Well Channie and I -”
“Of course, I would. She’s basically my little sister.”
He didn’t look at you as he cut you off and you fought to swallow down the bile comprised of hurt, shame, anger. You knew he was in the right since you forced him into what had happened but you couldn’t help it. You needed to be wanted, you needed to be seen as a woman so you decided to fight fire with fire and focus on the members instead. You let a mask slide across your features.
 Leaning back, you smiled demurely up at Minho, saying nothing in return. You took in the other boys - they were all so striking, so unique. Jeongin was staring at you shyly, Seungmin was maintaining nonchalant eye contact and Jisung was adjusting his belt. Good god. Felix had made himself comfy on the other side of you and thrown his arm around your shoulders, murmuring into your ear with his deep voice.
“If I may be so bold, I love your outfit. The red really pops against your smooth skin.” At this point, your face had started to match said colour. What were they playing at? You couldn’t say you weren’t relishing in it, however, as your inner brat was trying to rear its ugly head.
You crossed your legs and pushed your chest out slightly, noticing that Chan had now turned around and was staring balefully at the others. You couldn’t help but stare at him, his annoyance rolling off him in waves. The way the black tank hugged his torso as he crossed his arms really had you pulsing. 
“Thanks, I am feeling a tad warm right now though so I might take off this jacket - could someone help me?”
 Changbin appeared out of nowhere, pulling you upright and helping you out of it. You practically purred out a thanks and pretended not to notice how Chan’s scowl had deepened dramatically. The boys raked their eyes unabashedly over your body and when you turned you heard an appreciative gasp. You felt someone’s fingers trail over your shoulder and realised what they had seen.
“Your tattoo... So fragile, so delicate, so dark.” You realised it was Hyunjin and shivered when he brushed your hair to the side, seeing that it flowed up the back of your neck. It wasn’t a big tattoo by any means but you looked over your shoulder and caught Chan staring at it, eyes wide. You felt a quiet sense of satisfaction which was masking your lingering hurt so, clinging onto it, you gave Hyunjin a cheeky smile and reached out to touch his new piercing, eyes locked on his. His hair was shorter, shimmering maroon and his shirt was showcasing his collarbones. He was beautiful.  He seemed just as entranced by you so he leaned in.
“Are you single then?”
“All right, Jesus! Stop acting like horny teenagers - she’s here because we’re helping her, what use is that when you’re harassing her? Y/n, put your damn jacket on - I can see the goosebumps from here.”
Chan started aggressively gathering his things, muttering under his breath. Hyunjin’s eyes gleamed at you and it all fell into place. They were all baiting him…and it had worked. As everyone got their bags, you moved to slip past them to the door.
“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Chan was grimacing at you, arms crossed.
“You guys are getting ready to leave? Didn’t want to be in the way. Have a safe flight and well done for the great concert.” He was being an absolute prick and you realised that a written message three years from now would be sufficient. But as you started to open the door, a strong hand kept it closed, an arm effectively caging you in. You turned your head slightly and was met by his hard stare. Fuck me. You quickly looked behind you to see all the boys simultaneously turn and stare at a particularly ugly painting. 
“I like the…brush strokes.”
“Yes, the mustard yellow is quite…prominent.”
Chan lowered his voice, “You’re here because the hotel room is still available and we don’t want you going home alone. Please… just go there.” 
You grit your teeth and tried to tug at the door but his hand wrapped securely around yours and held you still. He leaned in, face unreadable, “What’s going on with you? I’m getting worried.” Your heart clenched painfully and you schooled your expression.
“Oh, don’t worry about me big bro - I’ll be fine.” He flinched and you cast your eyes down, feeling slightly guilty. You sighed, adding, “But I’ll take you up on your offer as I’m too fucking tired to find an uber in this madness.”
Everyone was quick to gather their things and when it came time to leave, you received your instructions.
“We will head out first, draw the crowd in and so forth. Once we’re on the road, you’ll follow us in a company car. You have your room key card?”
You nodded mutely and stared at the ground - so he wasn’t going to talk to you later. The disappointment and relief twirled into a glutinous mess and you felt sick. Someone approached you with a black cap and face mask, and you looked up to see Hyunjin in front of you. He gave you a gentle smile and silently asked if he could apply them. You nodded again and he slowly slid your mask into place, fingers trailing across your cheekbones. A hiss came out of nowhere and suddenly a new person had taken over. From behind you, Chan ran his fingers through your hair - you had seen him approach you but even if you hadn’t, you would recognise those fingers anywhere. The way they raked across your scalp had you seeing stars, the sensation threw you back to the bed where this had all started. You thought you might be imagining it but you could feel his heart race through his shirt and you shivered. After he had balled your hair up, under the cap, you were ready. He stepped back and avoided your gaze. You noticed Jisung clutching his chest, expression cooing and Jeongin blushing in the back. You rolled your eyes and watched the members move towards the van. Just as you started contemplating making a run for it, a harsh voice whispered in your ear.
“Don’t you dare think about it. Stop being a brat and go to the hotel.”
“Come on, Channie! The car is waiting!” Minho cackled and Chan jogged on, scowling the whole way.
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Once in the car, Chan’s mind raced. He felt like absolute scum. He had hurt you. He had hurt you the night before and it was evident in the way you interacted with him. He knew he was being standoffish but he was scared to look you in the eyes because everytime he did he was reminded of the tears glistening there as you begged him to fuck you. He didn’t even know he had a crying kink until you outright sobbed, clutched onto his shirt and stared beseechingly into his eyes. God, he had never been so hard in his life. He had let himself get swept up and now he was paying the price. He had acted like a frat boy and taken advantage of you in your vulnerable state. You. You, who knew who he really was, who had grown up with him - he was supposed to protect you, you fucking trusted him. He’d let one of the most important people to him down and he couldn’t bear to face you. He’d seen the hurt etched across your features while he was onstage and, like the coward he was, he ignored it. Like the coward he was, he had slipped out of your bed and fled. Like the coward he was, he didn’t message you, no matter how much he wanted to. And like a pervert…he had gotten himself off in the shower as soon as he could. How could he not when he noticed the patch of arousal you had left on his boxers? You probably hated him and he couldn’t face it. He instinctively gripped his seat as he remembered how you looked in the changing room. His heart had stuttered seeing you up close, your hair tousled, your eyes shining as you looked at the other members. He thought about that tattoo, when had you gotten that? It might quite possibly have been the sexiest thing he had ever seen. It reminded him of how you’d grown up without him, how you had bloomed into this gorgeous creature, how you were different yet not. He wanted to trace his fingers over it or better yet, his tongue but Hyunjin had beaten him to it and Chan had to hold himself back from strangling him. He didn’t know how you felt about him, he wasn’t supposed to want you but he couldn’t help it. When did he start liking you in this way? Did you like Hyunjin? The jealousy had flooded him when you touched his piercing with a smile. You had smiled at him like that when you were in his arms. Right before you cried and begged him to fuck you. Fuck. He was an absolute fucking mess. 
He had to apologise to you, he had to make this right.
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When you opened the door to your room, you froze. There, sitting in the same armchair as the night before, was Chan. He was staring hard at the carpet, saying nothing. After a while you slowly closed the door and shifted from one foot to the other, not sure what to do next - you didn’t particularly want to sit on that bed in front of him. 
“Are you just going to stand there?”
His face was impassive as he looked at you, it made your heart hammer in your chest. He was angry at you - you wanted to melt into the carpet but knew it was better this way. You wanted him to just get it over with - yell at you and then leave. You didn’t deserve anything less. So, mustering up your courage, you made your way to the bed and perched on the side of the mattress closest to him. His eyes were dark and you forced yourself to maintain eye contact - he was really angry. Your lip trembled as you realised there was no going back for the two of you. This was the end of everything.
“Y/n. I need to say something to you - fuck.”
He hissed the last word as he noticed your eyes glinting. Scrambling out of the chair, he moved to the massive windows, back to you.
“Please stop crying,” he gritted out.
Embarrassed at how pathetic you must look to him, you hastily wiped your cheeks and stood up, moving towards him. When you placed a hand on his arm (you had to apologise to his face) he jerked away as though electrocuted, muttering, “I can’t do this.” 
You turned away in defeat and made your way to the shower, thinking you would make it easier for him to leave. You found his pyjamas on the sink and choked back a sob, why was this so hard? 
After scrubbing your skin for fifteen minutes, you ventured out. You wanted to curl up into a ball and berate yourself further for jumping the man who’d always been there for you in one way or another but you came face to face with Chan again. He hadn’t left, he was sprawled in the chair again. Why won’t he just leave? I would much rather send him a fruit basket than do this. You steeled your shoulders, opened your mouth, but before you could say something he cut in.
“I’m sorry.”
What?
He repeated it and looked you dead in the eye. It confused you so much that you stood there, gaping like a fish for a good few seconds. When you were finally able to get words out, your voice sounded shrill.
“Chan… what are you apologising for? I’m the one who should be doing that.”
His brow furrowed and he tilted his head questioningly.
You stepped forward slowly, it was now or never.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for last night - I forced myself on you. I begged you to sleep with me and you gave in. I assaulted you. I’m so fucking sorry!”
Now it was his turn to gape - he felt even worse than before. 
“Is that the impression I gave you? That I didn’t want it?”
“You were hardly touching me, wouldn’t take my shirt off and you didn’t come!”
“That’s because I was forcing myself to stay calm and not lose control! You have no idea how incredible you looked under me, how fucking much I wanted to ruin you. I am so sorry. Even though I tried to restrain myself somewhat, I violated your trust in me. You were coming down from cocaine for god’s sake and I took advantage of you. I don’t even deserve to be alone with you right now.”
“No.”
You started to panic, hands shaking and breaths shallow. You couldn’t believe he was trying to do this again. To protect you and make you feel better about you assaulting him. Typical Chan. You’d had enough. Angry tears pooling in your eyes, you strode forward until you were standing right in front of him.
“You don’t get to do this. Not again! I fucking attacked you and now you’re trying to make me feel better? Chan, stop hiding your feelings - I know you’re resenting me right now and I need you to be honest. You’ve been ignoring me all evening, acting aggressive when I approach you. Saying you ‘can’t do this’ a moment ago. Stop being so nice!”
He had stood up by this point, towering over you. 
“Being nice? I’m being nice? Do you want to know what I actually meant when I said I can’t do this?” There was no trace of empathy on his face and it made you nervous. Were you wrong? He continued on, moving even closer.
“You had just started crying and it turned me on. It fucking turned me on. Apparently I’m into that. If I didn’t shake you off, I would have taken you against the window for everyone to see. I’m disgusting.”
Your breath caught in your throat. God, you wanted him. He was about to move away in shame when you caught his wrist. He studied you carefully and noticed your dilated pupils, mouth parted and cheeks flushed. You loved his confession and it twisted something in his chest. He wrapped a hand around your hair and lifted your face up, admiring the silvery sheen of tears glistening on your cheeks. He groaned and with his free hand, wiped them away with his thumb. When he slid it into his mouth and sucked at the salty residue, you felt your guilt wash away. He wasn’t joking. And you were going to lose it.
Gripping the back of your neck, he bent down to lightly brush his lips against yours but you both stopped before sealing the deal. His eyes danced.
“Tell me to stop.”
“No.” 
You mirrored his words, “Tell me to stop.”
His reply came fast and breathless.
“Never.”
The kiss was immediate, it was forceful with teeth clashing and lip biting. 
He pushed you onto the bed and, this time, ripped your shirt off. 
“As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, I just need to fucking check something.” He turned you onto your front and roughly brushed your hair out the way, stilling for a moment as he took in the sight. Your painted shoulder was glorious.
“When did you even get this?”
“Back in uni, six shots of tequila helped me gain the confidence to share my design with an artist.”
“So you’re saying, I leave you for a couple of years and you go wild? Shit, I’ll have to keep my eye on you in case you come back with a nose ring.” You felt his arousal through his shorts and smirked to yourself.
 He bent his head down and finally got to slide his tongue slowly over the clean lines, causing you to shudder and arch your back. He licked up your shoulder, to your neck where he bit down. Hard. It had you bucking in his grasp and he sternly pushed your hips down.
“Oh baby - settle down unless you don’t want to come. At all.”
Your eyes rolled back into your head and you quietened down, panting in anticipation. 
“Good girl.”
Fuck. When did he get so authoritative? He gripped your hair and bruised your mouth with his, licking into you. The pace was rough and you suddenly became aware of how gentle he had been with you when you needed him the previous night. He had gone at your pace, fluttered his fingers over you and made sure not to make you uncomfortable. You smiled into the kiss as you truly realised that he wasn’t reluctant, he was respectful - he was treasuring you. You were both idiots. He quirked a brow, feeling your smile and pulled away. 
“What’s on your mind, baby girl?”
“Channie, you could never hurt me - not even if you tried.”
He understood your meaning, giggling shyly (how?), but decided to take your words literally. 
“You sure about that?”
He bit the shell of your ear sharply and your eyes darkened in response. Now was not the time for sentimentalities. Ripping his shirt off, he flipped you over and nestled between your legs - his eyes trailed down and his lips quirked.
“You didn’t learn the last time?”
“I have a thing against wearing dirty undies after a shower.”
“Who are you?” His face tightened in thought and you needed to bring him back.
You cupped his face, “Chan, I need you to understand that I’m not the girl from your memories anymore. I’ve grown up - which you can clearly see - so please, don’t be gentle and don’t regret this. I want you and I realise I’ve kind of always wanted you - you were just either too thick to see it or you didn’t want to. I’ve grown up, I’ve dated and I still want you. Tell me you want this and then stop worrying about hurting me, if you’ll have me - I’m all yours. At least for tonight.” You swallowed thickly with nerves and waited for his response - would he finally see a beautiful, worldly woman (like the ones he must hang out with) or would he not be able to get past his impression of you, his little sister’s friend. You hoped it was the first. He took a few moments and you thought you might just cry which you did not want to happen as it would, apparently, just persuade him to fuck you.  
He sucked in his bottom lip with a sigh and stared up at you from below his lashes. His warm brown eyes narrowed in something akin to concern. He opened his mouth and then thought better of it, leaning down to place a warm kiss against your forehead. You shuddered and waited, heart sinking.
“Y/n. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to separate you from the girl I knew when I was little. In fact, I don’t want to.” Your shoulders tensed and you waited for the inevitable rejection. What an unfortunate position to be doing this in. 
“When I saw you on that couch yesterday, scared and so alone, an image of you crying in the rain hit me. I don’t know if you remember but you were sixteen - your parents had had a fight and gone to bed, forgetting to unlock the front door for you. I pulled you to your feet and cuddled you on Lily’s bed while we waited for her to get home. Anyways, you looked exactly the same, lost and feeling abandoned. I wanted to gather you in my arms again, I needed to protect you again. You mean so much to me and I wouldn’t want you to be anyone else. Just be Y/n, the annoying neighbour who I had a massive crush on before I left. Why do you think I kept in touch all these years? I needed some semblance of normalcy, I needed the comfort of home. I needed you. And I still do. So, stay with me as you. Yourself. Be mine.”
You let out a relieved laugh and he cradled your face again, whispering,“But you gotta stop doing this, darling, as you’ll send me to an early grave and you wouldn’t want to disappoint my fans now, would you?” 
He was kissing a stray tear away and you decided you would indeed try your best to shed a few everyday if it meant getting this treatment. 
Suddenly, you felt his breathing grow ragged as he looked you over.
“Now call me Channie again and let me have you.”
You bit back a whimper as he lowered his mouth to your neck and then, realising you were stark naked under him, you tugged at his waistband. He broke away for a second to rip both layers off and then captured your lips with his. It was a slow, deep kiss this time - as though you were savouring this pivotal moment together. His hands softly entwined in your hair again and yours slid leisurely over his back, running your nails over the tight planes of flesh. He hissed and you felt woozy, arousal dripping from your core. He slid his cock through your folds gently and held eye contact - it was almost too intense for you so you turned your face away, only for him to grip your chin and bring you back.
“Look at me. Please.”
You blinked and nodded dumbly, watching as he slid his fingers down to your begging hole. You were sopping, ready, and he knew this but a cheeky smile flashed across his features and you narrowed your eyes at him as he slowly made his way down your body. He trailed his tongue across your collarbones, flicked your nipples, grazed his teeth along your ribs and when he reached your pelvis he bit down on your hip. All while maintaining eye contact. You yelped and jerked your hips up from the bed but he easily draped a muscular arm across your torso, glaring at you.
“What did I say about moving?”
“Sorry…” you murmured, head in the clouds. You felt him chuckle, breath ghosting over your pussy. He hummed quietly and kissed your folds. It felt so good that you knew you’d be begging for more later. When his tongue swept over your slit you keened loudly, forcing yourself to stay still. He sucked your bud in between his plush lips and you felt your waterline pleading to release. No, this is too soon! You tried to keep your impending orgasm at bay but it was as though he knew all the right spots on you so as soon as his tongue slid inside you and lapped at your walls you lost it, thighs locking around his head and mouth open in a silent scream.
You felt him nip at your thigh and position himself over you, waiting for you to return to him. You lazily smiled at him, combing a hand through his messy locks and he kissed you all over your face, making you push at him.
“Tell me to stop before I make you scream.”
You widened your eyes as his confidence swept back at full force and choked out, “No.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He gripped your hip with one hand and sheathed himself in you, apparently deciding he couldn’t hold back anymore. And scream, you did. 
“Fuck, Channie!”
He said nothing, starting off at a punishing pace and you felt the breath leave your lungs. You held onto his biceps, honestly trying not to pass out. You realised he adored edging you because the heat in your belly would build up at the abuse you endured by his thick cock slamming into your walls but, at the last minute, he would feel you clenching and change the pace. It was frustrating the hell out of you and you wouldn’t have it any other way. He had monumentally slowed down his pace when he started talking. 
“How are you still so tight, baby girl? I’m so deep inside you and your wet cunt is still trying to suck me in. Fuck. Is this good for you? Do you like it when I take you like this?”
You let out an embarrassing noise, too fucked out to speak. At this, he slowed down even more.
“What was that? Speak to me - what do you want?” His face hovered over yours, smirking devilishly at you. God, you hated this man. You tried your best to glare at him and pulled your lips firmly shut, two could play at this game. He stopped completely and gripped your face hard, pushing his thumb into your mouth - you felt your eyes roll back as you instinctively clenched around him.
“Stop being a fucking brat, Y/n, and tell me what you want. Beg for it or I’ll make you cry.” He clearly was not going to move and your pussy ached so much as you had been going for quite a while. You realised that if you were going to sleep with him again, you would need to learn to hold your own but it wouldn’t be tonight. He heard a sound around his thumb and pulled it out.
“Hmm? What was that, sweetheart?”
“Cum. I need to cum. Now.” Your voice broke around the last word and he sucked in a breath, eyes darkened to black. He rose up on his knees and folded your legs up against his chest. You had thought it would be impossible but he was even deeper than before.
“If I see even one more tear, I’m going to stop.”
He started up his brutal pace, watching your face contort in the most delightful way. Your eyes took him in as much as you could - the furrow between his brow, his mouth hanging open, sweat trickling down his neck and shoulders. The way his arms bunched around your legs and the way he was breathing was coaxing you to the edge - when he started to feel you contract he licked his thumb and swiftly brought it down onto your clit. It sent you hurtling to your destruction, taking him with you.
Later, whilst facing each other on the bed, arms and legs tangled, you searched his eyes. The sparkle was there, no hint of regret in sight. You felt a surge of relief until you heard his next words.
“The sun’s not out yet and we are far from finished.”
Fuck.
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Your body was sore. Really sore. It felt as though he had split you in two, you shuddered at all the positions you had tried (successfully). But you had been over-ambitious and now you were paying the price. Opening a weary eye, you looked around. It was morning, the sun was gently washing in from behind the light curtains…and there was nothing blocking it. Chan wasn’t there, Chan was gone. You struggled to sit up but managed to slouch against the headboard. Was something wrong? Had you fucked up again? You got nervous - when he said “be mine” did he mean “just for tonight?”. You racked your brain, trying to remember what time his flight was but the sound of your discarded phone ringing had you scrambling to reach for it. When you looked at the caller ID, the air returned to you. 
“Channie?”
A warm chuckle met you and you sighed in happiness - until you realised he had destroyed you physically and ran. Was he already at the airport?
“Where are you?”
“I’m at a cafe, getting us some breakfast. In fact, I’m currently fighting over a Pain au Chocolat since I remember you liking those.”
“ …oh.” 
“Baby, did you think I’d left you again?” You imagined him softly smiling into the phone and you mirrored his action as you heard his next words.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 
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smutoperator · 21 days
Text
Breakfast at Jennie's
Kim Jennie x Male Reader
Tags: anal, carry fucking, celebrity, CFNM, creampie, cum drinking, edging, kitchen sex, morning sex, nymphomaniac, pantyless, "quickie", sexting, twerking
Word count: 4015.
Sex. This is always the first word Jennie thinks of when she wakes up every morning. A proud nymphomanic, Jennie keeps a full catalog of every single fuck she has ever had. There are many collectors out there, and Jennie is one of them. Her collection is made of cocks of multiple sizes, shapes, and colors that had the honor to penetrate her slutty holes.
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At the luxury condo where she lives, Jennie keeps track of every elegible man to fuck her. From the bratty 18-year-old heir all the way up to septuagenarian retirees. Every time a new man moves in, she finds out and greets them with a special text message: a picture of either her pussy or ass with an invitation to come to her apartment for some morning sex. She gives them 15 minutes to answer before the picture is automatically deleted.
As a new resident of Jennie's condo, you were greeted with this invitation with a picture of her pussy before you could even finish setting your furniture up. But you thought it was just one of those porn spams that proliferate these days. The second day, you got another picture, this time of her asshole. Once again, you didn't answer. But you noticed that the house number was the same on both messages: 1601. You checked it, and indeed, there was a house with this number in the condo.
It took a few more days before Jennie sent another text of her intimate parts to you, but when she did, it was quite a naughty one, as she spread both her fuckholes for you to see the insides of her pink cunt and anus. "15 minutes, I'm waiting," she was very direct this time. You had just woken up, meaning you were just wearing your undershorts and hadn't even had your breakfast, and her villa was on the other side of the condo, but you still drove like a madman to meet her deadline, landing at the door of her house just in time.
You knocked at the door but heard no answer. Maybe the house was real, but it was just a prank. For a second, you thought of going back to your car before any guard could spot a man wearing just his undies on a cold day at the house of one of the most famous celebrities in Korea. However, as you put your hands on the handle, you found out the door was open all the time.
Jennie's house was very spacious. She was clearly way out of your league. You might be wealthy enough to live in UN Village, but her living room was the same size as your apartment. You walked around four rooms and three bathrooms and didn't find anybody, once again having second thoughts. It was only at your final guess, guided by the smells coming out of the kitchen, that you finally found a dark-haired woman wearing an oversized Calvin Klein shirt and drinking hot chocolate.
"You're late." Jennie reprimanded you. "For much less, I sent guys packing. My time is precious, especially at this new phase of my life," she said. Jennie was indeed very busy, learning the grits and grinds of running a record label all by herself after her recent departure from YG Entertainment. "But I'll make an exception for you; I see you just moved in and are also still patching things around in your new life," she said, looking at your underwear the whole time.
"I think we still have time for a quickie, but I won't take my clothes off," she said, setting the rules. "Sure, even if it's only 10 minutes, I'm fine with this. Your house, your rules," you replied to her.
Jennie didn't waste any time, as she was already behind schedule. Sensing your cock still wasn't ready, she grinded her ass against your clothed shaft. You could see her cheeks popping out, and she was wearing nothing under her shirt. You answered her moves, humping your fabric against Jennie's perfect pussy and sensing your cock get harder at each slow thrust of your pretending to passionately fuck her. You then reached under her shirts to grab her tits and followed it with a few spankings of her sexy ass, much to her enjoyment.
Jennie sensually licked your torso, then got on her knees and set her sights on the monster bulging under your underwear. You helped her and took your underwear off by yourself as your cock sprung out all the way into touching Jennie's nose. She looked extremely tiny from that spot, as her head didn't even reach over your hips. Jennie gave your tip a soft suck before jerking your cock as hard as she could, blowing your pipe off as her right hand ran all over your shaft while her left hand landed in your balls.
You wondered if Jennie just wanted to suck your cock for 5 minutes and let you go after you cum. She did that many times to guys who couldn't handle the power of her blowjob. It was all a test to see if you could take further leaps. Jennie put her nails in your crotch and started sucking your pole with no hands, leading to your first hard groan. That move has finished many guys over her 7-year career, and she has mastered it to a top-level degree. The way she throated a cock with ease had you on your knees, but you knew you couldn't literally blow this opportunity.
But her blowjob was tough to resist—ball touching, shaft stimulation, tip sucking—it seemed like she knew all the right spots. Indeed, you were just one of the countless cocks she has faced. As Jennie moved down to your balls, you looked at your tip, already fully red, wondering how you hadn't dropped a fountain of cum all over the kitchen's floor yet. And she wasn't going to stop. Recognizing it, Jennie blew some hot air right at your throbbing spot. It had barely been two minutes of her sucking you off, but it felt like she had been there for two hours. She was truly hungry for some long, big sausage for breakfast.
Jennie still hadn't stopped sucking your cock; you just groaned and stood on the edge, waiting for her torture to be over. You were conflicted; maybe you should just shoot all over her mouth and move on to something else. She licked, jerked, mopped, and, most of all, sucked your hard prick like she wanted to give you a heart attack. "Stop," you murmured, but she didn't hear a peep, instead shoving your tip to bulge under her cheeks and deepthroating your shaft using no hands, then slapping it under her clothed chest before giving your cock some kisses and resuming with her fast-paced sucking.
You barely survived Jennie's five-minute-long cock-sucking barrage. Your eyes brightened when she said those words: "Wanna fuck me?" as Jennie spread her right leg and placed it at the kitchen's sink, her holes just peeking under her shirt. You had 5 minutes at most, so you had to enjoy every second of it, sticking your cock in her tight vaginal entrance shortly after. Jennie pushed her right leg in your direction and let you grab her by her right thigh, making your cock point vertically towards her pussy to reach deeper inside it.
Jennie's tight pussy offered a lot of resistance to your shaft. No matter how many such sessions she had, she always managed to keep her holes tight with plenty of exercise. You had to grab her lower thigh instead, but so far only your tip has managed to dive under her massive clitorial hood. Your penetrations were somewhat shallow, but lucky for you, they seemed to have hit the right spots, unless she was faking those out-of-breath moans she started to give after a few adjustments you made to penetrate her cunt.
You made sure to sense how she felt as you suddenly penetrated her deeper, making Jennie squeal for the first time. She firmly held her small body against the sink, giving you a naughty stare as your cock finally managed to fully stretch her out, taking advantage to lift her leg even higher and grab her by the waist. You could finally get a view of her throbbing clit and you hadn't even touched it due to the inconvenience of her shirt; instead, it was Jennie who took advantage of her clit being more accessible to finger herself. "Give it to me, baby," she said in a sexy voice while running her tongue all over her lips.
Jennie held herself by your neck, while her elbow was the only thing keeping her still tied to the sink, making her little, fragile body ache. In spite of that, you showed no signs of slowing down, giving her short but very deep pumps in her slit. You firmly gripped Jennie's slim waist, giving her faster and deeper poundings each time. She switched positions, putting her legs back on the floor and clenching her pussy all over your shaft while doing so. Now you had both hands on her waist and only 3 minutes left, so it was time to hit hard with no worries.
You increased the speed with which you hammered Jennie's cunt, taking her fully under control as your right hand grabbed her waist while your left hand grabbed her neck. Jennie reached under her shirt and spread her ass cheeks a little to ease the pressure of your deep pumps hitting her cervix at full speed. Just as she did that, your balls clapped intensely against her cheeks, smashing her little fingers. You quickly found out that two hands on her waist was the way to go, as you were much stronger than her. She had no answer to your hard pumps except moaning and screaming like a slut.
Jennie stopped as she climbed on top of the sink, now facing you. You once again grabbed her right thigh, but this time she managed to push you closer by wrapping her left leg around your butt as you entered back into her pussy. Now you were the one putting Jennie literally on the edge, as her ass was about to fall from the sink before you pushed it up just in time. Jennie's pussy finally on full display to you makes you try even harder, as you can now fully see your throbbing monster bulge under her little trimmed bush. She's a master of moaning; her voice is so sexy, it makes you wonder if she could release a single just recording them and top the charts.
"Ah yes, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah," she continues to moan as your cock stretches her fuckhole at a steady pace and your skin claps against her meaty clit. You hit Jennie as deep as you can before letting her climb down the sink. You assume your 10 minutes are over as Jennies goes back to kneeling to suck your meat and milk you dry in a minute or so. Using her no-hands sucking of your manhood, you brace yourself to blast in Jennie's mouth at any second. She places her hands on your thighs and then masturbates your shaft while muffling her moans under your balls. A fast jerking of your foreskin and her tongue running up and down your shaft have you on the edge of your seat once more. She kisses your tip and spits on your dick. You now have only one minute left, and try to hold on until the moment finally comes.
Jennie gives you a fast jerkoff while inserting your tip in her mouth. You know she's searching for that cum. She doesn't even try to hide anymore. You just feel satisfied if you fill her warm mouth with a hot and heavy dose of sperm at this point. 30 seconds left. More jerkoffs from Jennie. She slaps your tip on her tongue, then goes back to suck it deep. 10 seconds left. You just relax and close your eyes; whatever comes next will be enough for you. That's when Jennie surprises you with those words:
"I think you earned a few extra minutes," she says, putting her left knee on the kitchen table while her right knee is slightly lower on the bench. It takes a bit for you to regain strength from Jennie's almost deadly blowjob, as you start back with very slow pumps in her pussy, grabbing her by the hair as you manage to get halfway in, with her pussy tightening after those minutes without your cock inserted in it. As your cock finally disappears under her shirt, Jennie starts screaming harder. "AHHH. AHHH. AHHH. AHHH.." Her cheeks jiggle as she approves of your pounding. Then words that are about to send you to the heavens come from her mouth.
"Now I want you to fuck my ass," Jennie says as she closes her legs and plants both of them on the floor before spreading them back for your anal insertion. Jennie screams and gleefully licks her thumb as you insert your full length in her asshole, reaching under her shirt to masturbate herself. Your well-above-average girth was too much even for an experienced anal cocksleeve like Jennie, as she placed her hands on her ass to spread and ease up her butthole entrance. Your cock filled every inch of her anus, making her pant at each thrust.
"Oh, this feels good," Jennie says once the initial pain is gone. She's a quick learner and can adjust to any cock, enjoying your anal stretching to the fullest now. "Ahhhh, that's good!" Jennie screams of pleasure as your meat keeps drilling her asshole and establishes a consistent rhythm, not going super rough on her and just using your firm grip on her waist to your advantage when penetrating. She alternates sexy murmurs with more high-pitched screams as you advance inside her tight hole.
Jennie puts her legs fully over the table. The gape in her butthole is much wider now and makes for much easier penetration this time. You place both hands in her ass and softly push your cock, leading to more sexy noises from her. She licks her index finger and puts it in your mouth to suck. You go a little faster as your cock starts to fully disappear inside her anus, but even as you increase the speed, you're very passionate and try as much as possible not to hammer her just for the sake of it.
"Yes, just keep fucking my ass," Jennie approves. You once again increase the pace and hit her deeper as she pants and makes some cute little noises with her mouth barely open. Now it's your turn to shove your thumb on it as the tongues it. You ruin her lipstick and mark her neck with it as your thumb slides down. Your pace is very steady as you touch all of Jennie's erogenous zones, with a little grope of her tits under the shirt and some massaging of her neck as well.
You finally can't resist the urge to pound her asshole hard and fast, giving Jennie fast thursts that she enjoys a lot. "Yes, yes, please," she says as you finally clap her cheeks while performing anal on her. Jennie used the whole table as a support for her body and groans as your hard pounding finally arrives into her asshole, just like you did minutes before to her cunt. Clapping sounds keep coming out every time your hips touch her butt. Jennie screams harder as her butthole finally gets fully stretched out.
"YES. YES. YES," Jennie says, almost losing her voice as you take her by surprise with fast hammerings in her asshole. You now mold her rectum to the shape of your girthy manhood, making clap sounds in her ass that match with her perfect out-of-breath moans. "It feels so good to be fucked in the ass; I'll give you 10 extra minutes," Jennie says as you pull out of her.
Jennie gets on her knees and masturbates herself. She isn't lying. The last time one of her morning acquaintances got to have anal sex with her, she was still under YG. This was her first morning anal fuck as a self-made record label owner. She licks her chops and gives you a demand: "I want you to stick this cock in my ass until you cum," as she spreads her legs to sit in your thick man meat.
You weren't prepared for Jennie's fast ride on top of your dick as you grunt each time she reaches the base of it. You cling to her little tits, but that only makes her go harder. She might be small, but takes your big cock impaling her with ease. Your just like a veiny and meaty version of the big dildo she rides every day first thing in the morning.
After a few clashes with your hips, Jennie stops mid-air and starts fingering herself. You seize the opportunity to push your cock up her rectum. "Ohhh, yes, yes, yes, perfect," she loves when you do it. The harder you pound her, the more heat she puts in her clit while fingering it, and the higher she screams. "Just keep g..." She can't even finish the sentence as your cock and her finger team up perfectly to give her an insane orgasm.
Jennie's loud screams motivate you to fuck her harder; your cock is now taking full ownership of her asshole. You can't even barely see the results of your pounding, thanks to her shirt, but her screams are all you need to hear to keep doing what you're doing. "OH. OH. OH. OH,"  she keeps yelling as your impalement session shows no signs of slowing down—quite the opposite. Her stretched cunt muscles also expand as squirt starts coming out of her vagina with each pounding.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH," Jennie lets out a prolonged scream as your balls keep making a loud noise each time they smash her ass cheeks. She holds herself by the tip of her toes as each pounding now has her on the verge of collapsing. You suddenly stop and let her do the work now, as she bounces just as fast as your pumps. It ends up being a very smart decision, as Jennie tightens her anus around your thick prick and sends shivers all over the shaft of your dick. The rough pounding truly awakened her inner beast, as she now rides you like a maniac for a couple minutes.
"Carry me and fuck me hard," she demands, and you oblige, firmly grabbing her ass and lifting her tiny body. Your dick slides under her oversized shirt straight back to her pussy. "Just fuck my pussy nonst... AH, AH, AH, AH," once again she fails to finish a sentence as your cock hammers her hard. The cheek-clapping sounds at this position are the loudest so far, and you love being in full control and stetching Jennie's walls at full speed, turning her into a slut that only has one word in her vocabulary to speak. She attempts a little ride on your cock, but you are having none of it, just plowing her even harder after she tries it. "AH, YES, YES, YES, YES," is all she can say.
You want to relax a little after such an intense session and sit on the floor. "I think you earned this," Jennie says as she finally takes her shirt off and lets you see her naked body in full display. She sits her ass back on your boner, letting you see her little thong marks. Jennie twerks her little ass as you put just the tip inside her, giving you easy access to suck her tits as she tilts her body in your direction. Jennie may not have the biggest ass, but she knows how to twerk on a cock, spanking herself and turning her cheeks red while she bounces, letting out sexy moans at each slap.
You try to push up, but Jennie quickly shuts her tight hole down and smashes your shaft, moving upwards for more twerking. You grab her cheeks as she slowly opens up her butthole to your meat and increases the pace of her ride, flipping her hair while bouncing her ass straight into the base of your dick.
"Take it, stretech that ass," she commands as she gets her body close to yours, letting you do the work of attempting to drill her anus all the way deep. Her moans start to get out of breath once you pick up the speed. She starts dueling with your cock, twerking while you try to push it up her butthole. "Fuck my ass," she keeps demanding, urging you to rise to the challenge and impale her to the fullest.
You finally do, making your balls clap a lot against her cheeks as you groan at each thrust. You jackhammer Jennie and make her let out even sexier moans. You lift your body off the ground as much as you can, making Jennie's tiny body almost float in the air with each pump. "Ohhh, fuck," Jennie says as she starts panting, with you giving your maximum to fuck her now as she takes pounding after pounding from your massive meat.
Even though Jennie looks very tired, you ended up more exhausted than her, leaving room for her to restart twerking on your cock. As Jennie takes advantage of it, you just watch and let her be the star of the show, the it girl, the ace of morning sex. Jennie's rapid and shallow bounces end up being too much for you to handle, as you shoot ropes of semen all over her butthole as soon as she gives herself another spank that clenches her already tight anal walls to the point your cock can no longer resist.
Jennie turns her microwave on and starts preparing a little hot chocolate to heal herself after such a good fuck. As the chocolate finishes heating up, Jennie gets back to you and says, "I think it needs some milk.". She scoops the cum that fell onto your belly and farts the cum inside her asshole into a cup, adding it to the hot chocolate mug and mixing it up, drinking the whole thing in front of you. "So tasty, just like I wanted it," she says.
"I have to go now; I'm late to work, and I have a lot of business to do today. I'm starting a new life, so I'm very busy. I guess I'll have to take the helicopter to work," she said. Yes, Jennie was truly a celebrity beyond your league. You truly felt a little jealous but somewhat proud that you managed to cum inside the Jennie Kim's tight asshole as you dressed yourself up and took off, knowing you'd be at least an hour late to your work and face the worst of rush hour.
A few weeks passed by. Jennie did not contact you. Maybe she was indeed lying, and you were just a quickie to warm her up for a busy day. One day, as you were already on your way to work and on the verge of leaving the condo, a text message popped on your screen; it was from her, this time sending you a full-body shot of her naked with the caption. "Come to my house NOW".
You didn't hesitate, making a U-turn with your car and heading to Jennie's home. Her door was already open just waiting for you to come, as you find Jennie this time in her living room. In an inversion of the first time you two met, this time you had your full work attire on while she was wearing just her underwear.
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"Do anything you want to me," she says, giving you the sign to come in her direction.
You're definitely not going to work today.
1K notes · View notes
hajunzi · 4 days
Text
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𓂂 ׅ 𓈒  ݁ fuck buddies
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pairing: football player!heeseung x afab!reader
genre: football player au, mutual pining, fuck buddies to lovers (?)
warnings: seceret relationships, hookups, you and heeseung have commitment issues, skirt kink, jealousy, heated makeout, teasing, touchy heeseung, pussy drunk heeseung, car sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering, bratty reader, praise kink (implied), name calling, pet names, unprotected sex (USE CONDOMS!!), i know nothing abt sports other than cheer, swim and dance..
word count: 3.4k┊masterlist
author's note: Wrote this during a lecture and didnt know what to title it so when i come up with smth better it'll change. Also, i was watching cringe tiktok compilations on another tab i had open, and i heard a 3-minute whimper audio while watching it. I wanted to cry my eyes out bc my boyfriend was next to me and told me everyone in the lecture hall could hear the shit i was listening to even with my "soundproof" headphones... BEATS RUINED MY REPUTATION I WILL NEVER USE THEM AGAIN
enha taglist: (open = send an ask to be added)
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It was the night of Heeseung’s homecoming game. football players spread across the field as the crowd roared, cheering for their respective university teams.
In all honesty, you didn’t know little to anything about football, let alone sports, flinching out every time the students that sat on the bleachers next to you would scream out in excitement or shoot up from their seats to clap and cheer.
The word “bored” doesn’t accurately convey how uninterested you were and how little you knew about college football. You didn’t feel much better not understanding a single event that had unfolded while sitting in the brisk fall air.
Your ears and fingers were nearly numb from the absence of sufficient warming layers on your body, and you were shivering in the denim jacket you had stolen from Heeseung’s closet.
As the game entered the fourth quarter, you were trembling with each gust of wind and fidgeting with the gem-layered pendant that rested against your chest.
It was obvious from the scoreboard, which you had to squint your eyes to see from the stands, that Heeseung’s team would win. The final score resulting, 38-14, caused students to stand up and shout in unbridled joy as the rest of the football team ran towards the field to celebrate their victory.
You still felt out of place despite being surrounded by so much school spirit, chanting, and screaming. In an effort to blend in with the crowd as much as possible, you sat as far away from the field as you could.
Watching Heeseung celebrate with his teammates, shouting out in excitement and playfully tackling them into hugs, his long arms slinging over players so effortlessly, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.
You found it strange to hear other women gossiping and giggling about Heeseung, saying things that you would utterly concur with.
But the rumor that he was a sex god and was extremely strict about who he chose to hook up with was what you despised the most. How only the luckiest of pretty girls would he tempt back to his bedroom.
Even though you were hooking up with Heeseung and had plans to return to his apartment tonight to give him some, you resisted the urge to lean in and let everyone know because you knew that doing so would make you appear crazy.
Realizing this would make you a colossal hypocrite since you were the ones who caused the difficulties in your relationship with Heeseung.
Being overly protective of your own heart and unwilling to let the brown-eyed playboy with a long history of “sleeping around” have to close a relationship with you.
You managed to make out his trademark black hair, which is typically styled but was now pulled back over his eyes.
You also noticed his prince charming smile, the skin that peaked out from under his jersey, and the figure that shimmered from the sweat drips covering his entire body, making him look like a magazine model under the field lights.
His eyes scanned the sea of people until they finally met yours, sending a chill down your spine.
When he saw you so out of your element and knew you were doing it specifically for him, his Chester-like smile only got bigger.
He winked as he returned his focus to his coach, leaving you fiddling against the bitterly cold bleacher seats as well as the girls seated in front of you giggling as if the gesture was intended only for them to lean against each other in an out-of-control fit.
You reminded yourself that the only reason you had endured it all was because of the stupid deal Heeseung had made with you as your hands clenched against your thighs in frustration.
“How about we make a little bet YN, if i win this game you have to give me a special reward.”
Any bet you placed with Heeseung was akin to making a deal with the devil himself.
The winding game of cat and mouse with you resolutely giving in to his childish antics, beckoning your attention until you fall back into his trap with enough time to have you pressed against the cool tile of the guy’s locker room way after practice hours.
Fucking you stupid until you gain back that tiny sense of commitment-related fear by ignoring him entirely the next day.
Heeseung and you had been hooking up for long enough for him to understand that every time you pulled away, he would just snap back much harder despite your foul mood.
When you needed a quick reminder of how good he would make you feel or how well he already knew your body to turn you into a trembling mess unable to stand up by yourself, he was always there with open arms.
And each time you fall for it. The dick was simply too good to throw away entirely.
Because of this, you kept up your end of the bargain, swallowing the last of your pride, and stood in the parking lot’s darkness to observe how the other students filed through the gates along the curb.
Around the time Heeseung emerged from the locker room, the crowd had vanished quickly, going about their respective lives as they drove away in their cars.
Except for a few staff vehicles scattered about, the parking lot was deserted as you watched him approach closer while tossing his gym bag over his shoulder.
His phone initially caught his attention, not taking notice of you, swiping his thumb against the screen.
His head jerked up at the light ding notification from the phone in your pocket, and he followed it with his eyes, grinning to see you shivering by the curb for him.
He looked at your baggy outfit and lifted his brow, saying, “I’m going to be pretty disappointed if you aren’t wearing my gift under that.” He teases you by strolling past you with a yawn that seems uninterested, each long stride ending in the direction of his car as you simply followed his trail with a huff.
“Don’t fucking worry. I’ve been freezing my ass the entire game wearing this stupid thing.” Unbutton until the midsection of your torso to show a glimpse of the brightly colored cropped cheer uniform top you had tucked away under the fuzzy inside of his jacket, deciding there would be no harm in just giving him a peek.
The cut ending just under the curve of your ribs exposes the pudge of your stomach entirely. The uniform was very obviously designed for cookie-cutter, precisely shaped cheerleaders with pale skin, ponytails, and thin bodies who looked like they belonged in any stereotypical teen movie.
Heeseung almost drooled at the material you had to squeeze yourself into, clinging to every curve and crevice of your body.
You pulled the hem down, but it still didn’t cover much since you could see the skin of your torso next to the top’s strangely clashing colors.
Heeseung trapped you against the passenger side door, looming over you, and murmuring, “I think you’ve got to be the prettiest girl on the team YN.” He spoke in a deep voice that made it difficult for you to look him in the eye, your thighs threatening to squeeze together as his hands crept under the jacket around your hips.
“Yeah, yeah, I know I look exactly like your basic ass type. Can you hurry and just unlock your car before someone fucking sees us already?” The Heeseung was giving you all of his attention, but you were good at ignoring him to a point, pressing your palm flat against his muscular chest.
His fingers reached out to grab you by the jaw as he only leaned in closer, maintaining his smile the entire time. He did this to forcefully draw all of your attention to him.
“That’s not very school spirit of you, YN. Shouldn’t you be congratulating me on winning?” It was all an act to enrage you even more, but it was working due to the pout on his lips and the way he glared down at you.
You try to stop your heart from racing by pulling your face away from his hold and crossing your arms.
It appeared as though he had cornered you and was treating you like prey—just another bug that had gotten caught in his web. You could feel Heeseung’s words brushing against your skin as he hummed, “You know, you have such a fucking potty mouth,” sending a shiver up your spine.
His long fingers caressed your hips as he purposefully wedged his leg between yours. His light touch now extended under the jacket with both of his hands.
He pressed against you until you could feel the print of his erection against your stomach as your back rested against the car window. “I’ll forgive you if you show me the skirt.”
“Heeseung.” In a plea, you breathe out his name.
The last thing you wanted to do was to be caught flaunting some poor girl’s stolen uniform when you were already feeling self-conscious about only showing the top.
“YN.” He rolled his eyes and moved away, saying, “That’s too bad, I only give rides to pretty girls in skirts.” In a bored tone, he told you. His normally innocent smile had been replaced by an uninterested glare as he cocked his head.
He was practically swinging bait in your face, and you knew that the only thing he seemed to enjoy more than playing football was teasing you.
As a result, you became the first to play along with his scheme.
As you reached down and untied your sweatpants, shimming to pull them down to your thighs, a matching skirt set was revealed from beneath the gray cotton, his eyes never leaving yours until you broke eye contact first.
He breathed out at the view of your thighs crammed into the snug cuffed ends of the skirt’s safety shorts watching as his eyes take in the sight of your body.
You weren’t sure why you were acting so shocked when Heeseung chuckled and reached out to pinch the plush of your legs, but he quickly pulled back before he could become overly excited by touching you.
“Okay, you’ve persuaded both my dick and me. If you don’t want me to fuck you in the open parking lot, get in the car, slut."
The journey to wherever he was taking you seemed a lot worse to you. Your exposed thigh is being squeezed by his hand, which seems to be rising steadily.
If you knew he was going to tease you for the next twenty minutes, you would much rather have him fuck you in the parking lot. Not enough of the music blaring from the radio could help you calm down as you writhed at the growing need from beneath your skirt.
Even with the sun gone and the roads seeming like a maze at night, you could tell from the turns and exits which spot he had turned into.
His fingers danced across the precarious line of fingering you in his car or not while his eyes were fixed firmly on the road.
You even spread your legs wide to get the perfect angle for his hand, but he moved quickly to step back just far enough to deny you what you were pleading for.
What a fucking tease.
"You’re so fucking insufferable,” you grumbled, causing him to laugh heartily.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” he quips. “You act like you’re not eating this shit up.”
“You think I like being dressed like this?”
“You agreed to it,” he reminded you, his hand laying a teasing smack against your thigh. “Just admit that you fantasize about being folded like some cheap slut in a porno. I won’t kink shame, angel."
"Don’t call me that,” you whined. “I’m not some fucking slut.”
“Well yeah duh,” he grinned side eyeing you only for a second. “But you’ll sound like one when I’m done with you.”
He backed into a more private space further into the deserted parking lot, engaged the car in park, and turned the radio volume down until it was barely audible over the sound of the late night.
He slapped his hands against the steering wheel, leaned back against his seat, let out an exasperated sigh, and then grinned impishly in your direction.
“The stars look just as pretty as you, YN.”
“Oh yeah, and how many girls do you usually say that to?” Rolling your eyes, you tried to contain the warmth that accompanied the sincere compliment.
“Only to the cheap sluts that I really want to fuck.” He responded dryly, watching with a gulp as his eyes glanced at your lips. “You’re driving me crazy, baby.” He finally snapped, leaning over the dash to kiss you, only being able to hold the whole arrogant persona for so long before he needed you as much as you needed him.
You couldn’t claim to have much prior experience having sex in a vehicle.
His room or yours would typically be where the two of you would spend time alone, but since your roommates were home and Heeseung’s fraternity was probably packed with people throwing a party in his honor, you had to make do with getting down in his car.
Holding yourself in place and pushing yourself closer so that you wouldn’t completely topple forward, all you had to do was twist and strain.
You could just tell from the low grunts and small sighs that Heeseung was getting a bit frustrated, his long limbs cramped into the small space. “Can’t you just sneak me into your place?”
“Oh yeah, you could just introduce yourself to my roommates while your balls are deep inside of me, maybe even shake my parent’s hand and tell them about your skirt kink too.”
“God, you’re such a fucking bitch.” Heeseung sighed, nipping at your bottom lip, “you’re lucky I’m into that.” Heeseung sighed, licking his lips before opening his door.
After he slammed the door shut, the overhead light flickered, and you puzzledly watched as he opened the back door rather than crawling into his seat before turning to you with an expectant look that beckoned you to join him.
You managed to crawl through the seats with a bit of a struggle, settling yourself against the other door as Heeseung guided your legs apart to make room to slot himself in. “Best gift ever,” he muttered as you changed into your full-fledged outfit, shedding the jacket and sweats that had covered you to the ground.
The moment that Heeseung had ducked under the hem of your skirt, your fingers tangled a handful of his hair in a fist, shivering at his eagerness, feeling his teeth tease against the skin of your thigh. Finally, paying much attention to the eagerness between them, his fingers probed and nudged against your clit until he had hooked your underwear to the side.
Your body responded before you could even process what was happening. His tongue teased at your clit, his fingers dipped between your folds, and the sound of your breathy groans spurred him on to move swiftly.
With your needy whimpers, fingers clamping down firmly in the nest of his hair, grinding against his fingers, and the sensation of your legs twitching and quivering, just the taste of you on his tongue was like unwrapping another reward.
However, you weren’t a fool.
You were aware of how pussy drunk Heeseung became each time he would eat you out, usually wanting to have you stumble out his name with tears threatening to prickle your eyes. When it came to going down on you, he was the type to lick the plate clean.
This is why you were taken aback when Heeseung suddenly stopped and raised the material on your skirt to look you in the eyes.
He continued to work his fingers in and out of you as if he weren’t attempting to carry on a conversation while teasing, “Be honest, you so have a skirt kink.”
As you attempted to comprehend the question, let alone provide a sarcastic response, your lashes fluttered and your head spun.
Any train of thought that tried to escape your mind as Heeseung’s fingers worked their magic “I-i’m.” is the only thing you could stutter out.
“I-I, you what baby?” His laughter made you squint your eyes shut, and you covered your face with your hands as he mocked you in a flat tone.
Heeseung leaned up and grabbed you by the wrist, pulling your hands away from your face to give you a more delicate kiss on the lips, muttering mostly to himself, “You’re so cute.”
Leaning into his touch, you suddenly felt his fingers pull away from you, making a humiliating wet sound that you ignored since Heeseung had already diverted his attention to another part of your body. He was fondling your breast through the crop top as his fingers explored.
You could tell from the way Heeseung smiled against your mouth that he was biting back on making some stupid joke the moment that his fingers made out the bud of your nipples.
As he pulls away, his other hand switches back to tracing the plush of your thighs before quickly removing your skirt.
He peeled it off of you without a bat of the eye, not wanting to struggle with the safety shorts that were sewn in under it like he had to do when he had blindly gone down on you.
Bumping his elbow and leg against leather seats as he sat up trying to strip his own shirt, a loud thump jortles you from your daze. Only then had you realized Heeseung’s hiss of pain.
His normally pale face was now flushed pink, and he scrunched his brow, rubbing the back of his head. “This is the thanks I get for having such a big dick.”
He leaned back down, perfectly squeezing himself between your spread legs, and asked, "Wanna kiss it better?” while getting dangerously close to your lips. He didn’t wait for a response simply because he could tell you were only glancing at his lips.
His head dove to hide in the crook of your neck with a grunt, as your fingers searched for the bulge that reacted with a twitch after you had grabbed him by the elastic of his shorts.
You didn’t hesitate, never did, knowing what you both wanted as his fingers spread your pussy apart.
You couldn’t help but feel intoxicated while listening to his shift in breathing as your hand guided his length to press against exactly where you wanted it.
Sharing a relieved gasp as he shifted his hips against yours, the feeling of him burying himself inside you completely, Heeseung was too lost in the bliss to joke about how good it felt to have you clench around him.
Your hips move in unison, seemingly motivated by a primal urge to pursue the intense arousing sensation that had been building up.
Heeseung, rubbing his thumb in circles against your clit while whimpering into your neck about how gorgeous you were.
As the intensity of his thrusts increased, steam built up on the car’s windows, and the air became humid as the car’s slight creak gave way to the weight shifting inside.
Few actual words were spoken because the two of you were too preoccupied with making each other feel good to even form sentences that had any proper finishes.
Heeseung readjusted himself, finding the spot that caused your muscles to tighten and spasm. Hooking your leg over his shoulder, nearly causing it to hit the ceiling as he grunted at you while clenching around you continuing his pace until your orgasm unfurled.
Despite being athletic, Heeseung went completely slack, falling with his entire weight against your chest, panting as if he were in practice running a mile.
He found calm in the thump of his heartbeat against your chest. “Hey, so about the roommate thing,” Heeseung spoke after he had eventually caught his breath, cuddling against your chest as his fingers played with your pendant. “I wouldn’t mind meeting them, or your parents, or telling anyone honestly; I just would prefer to do it fully clothed if that’s okay.”
You blinked. “You mean you want this to be like an official thing?” you asked, finally working up enough energy to sit up against the side of the door.
Wincing at the uncomfortable feeling of your sweaty bare skin dragging against the leather material of the seats. “Like this, you no longer refer to me as a slut but as your girlfriend instead.”
“Well, I still want you to be my slut, but calling you girlfriend doesn’t sound too bad either, does it?” Heeseung shrugged.
1K notes · View notes
yxami · 1 month
Text
A clingy, not very innocent idol who refuses to confess despite his actions already seeming like those of a boyfriend.
desc: yandere innocent idol x gn manager reader, lots of nsfw near the end, manipulation, possessiveness, and general asshole behaviors from a yandere. I really didn’t intend to right this much, oopsies.
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You’ve been managing an idol for a bit of time now, a very short and stressful time. All your hard work pays off when you can go home and relax without a worry about how Akol is going to act in the general public.
He’s pulled too many stunts, some even making you believe that his career was done for, but he proved toy wrong when all he had to do was write a sweet and short tweet of how sorry he is and the fans were back to loving him.
Not that they hated him in the first place anyways, they were always going to love him, always. Why else would he preform for losers who could commit to him no matter what he did?
“Manager! I think I lost my phone in here” He knocks, louder once he starts growing impatient that you’re not hastily opening the door to see him like how he thought you would. He wants to be admired, he wants you to see how he put himself together before coming over.
“I’m comin!” You inhale as much as your lungs can let you before letting out a tired sigh, opening the door to see your precious idol looking up at you with his doe eyes, shadowed by his long lashes. If you looked any harder you’d be able to see his pupils widen when you entered the frame.
“Geez you need to start answering quicker, what if I was in a hurry or getting chased by paparazzi?” He smoothly delivers feigned worries with a whiny tone, inviting himself inside like he always does.
The sneaky minx of an idol even managed to convince you to hold up the couch while he purposefully bent over and pressed himself against you without you being able to view the not so innocent faces he made at your grunts from the weight of the furniture and his teasing.
“I just can’t find it, oh well” He slumps against the couch before you even fully set it down. You open your phone and go to call him, and as you’re doing so he stands up, wanting to look at what you were doing. He hears you dialing for someone, who on gods green earth was more important for you to be calling while he’s right infront of you??
“Who ya calling? Someone I know? Have I met them?” His questions go unanswered as he seems to stiffen when the two of you can both hear vibrating emitting from his pocket.
“Oh! It’s in my pocket, silly me” He wobbly smiles, he was so focused on you that he had forgotten to hide it somewhere. “Well, I guess my search is over, do you wanna watch a mov—“
“I’m okay, I was planning to enjoy my time off.. alone, you have a couple of brand posts you need to do, so I won’t keep you waiting ” You start walking to the door, to which he does not follow.
“No, I can do them later, let’s just watch a movie!” He insists, patting the space next to him, trying to bite back his frown. Did you not want to hangout with him? Was he being annoying? Ugh, so what if he was being annoying, you should entertaining it!!
“Akol—“
“Please? I just wanted to hang out with you today… without work n’ stuff” He mumbles, demeanor completely different from what was going through his mind. His hands are clasped in his lap as he squirms, looking down like a kicked puppy.
“Alright..” You quietly sigh, making sure your front door was locked before coming back to the couch, somehow immediately having your pretty little idol in your lap. He’s becoming more shameless by the minute.
He whispers a few thank you’s while facing you, wrapping his arms behind your neck as he sneaks his face between your shoulder and neck. He’s inhaling your scent, growing more aroused by the minute but he won’t dare to do anything. “Not yet” He repeats in his mind, but he breaks and can’t help but grind his lower half against yours.
“Manager…?” He says a little too breathlessly, capturing your attention away from the movie and at him, you pat his back, rubbing it softly as if he was a sick critter. “Yeah?”
“Can you help me, please? It’s so hot and.. I-I can’t focus, you’re too distracting” He whispers, lips almost touching your left ear, as he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are clouded with lust, pupils almost in hearts.
His grinding only quickens when he notices that you’re trying to focus on the movie, he’s jealous, rightfully so, why aren’t you focusing on him? He’s perfectly playing his usual sweet idol act, it should work on you!
“I can’t do that. I’m not someone who should be touching you like that” You shake your head, placing your hands on his hips, making him shiver as if he was cold despite his body feeling on fire from your fingers pressing into his skin. You’re stimulating him with it but your words just make him want to bash his head.
“I don’t care if you should or shouldn’t be..! I trust you” A throaty whine leaves from his throat, lips quivering as he hardly needs time to get his eyes to water at the perfect moment. “It’s okay see?” He moves your hand on his chest, lifting his shirt so you could touch him bare. He cups your hand, making it squeeze around his perky nipple.
He growing more and more pathetic, and he knows it, he could care less. He doesn’t even care about what his fans would say if they found out about his crush on you, fuck his fans, he only wants you! He’d leave all of them if it meant that he could have you.
“You’re very sweet Akol, but you know I can’t, I would do it to help you but this is just going to start a bad habit” You sighs, taking your hand away much to his dismay, he’s about to reach for your hand again before you move him off your lap. Fuck. no, you’re supposed to be saying yes, you have to.
He internally panicked for a few moments, eyes flickering with worry before smashing his lips against yours, making it soft and passionate once you don’t try to pull away, his kisses are needy and insistent, just like him. He sneaks his hands under your shirt, hands squeezing your chest, slowly rubbing your sensitive nipples between his thumb and pointer.
“I won’t ask you for anything more? Just please entertain me this one time?” His voice is rough and raw, nothing alike compared to the chipper and sweet idol you usually witnessed, this was real.
“I promise I won’t ask again” His lies coax you to help the poor idol you deemed to be in need, despite never needing saving from his lust for you, if anything you were the one who needed it after he milks you dry.
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alphabetboyluvr · 1 month
Text
the curious lifespan of migrating monarchs - jjk
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THE CURIOUS LIFESPAN OF MIGRATING MONARCHS (& other aurelian affairs)
pairing: streamer!jk x international student!female oc (s2l)
warnings: strangers to lovers, clubbing, foul language, alcohol, vaping lol, jungkook is kinda famous, the oc is oblivious, the oc is also a foreign student who has very recently arrived in Korea!! (pls note - while i've been in korean uni dorms, i've never been in yonsei dorms specifically so don't shout at me if it isn't supeeeerr accurate), jaykay is speaking in eng for like 90% of this!!, i've also never watched a gaming streamer and had to do so for research lmao so there's a lot of guesswork going awwwn <3, the oc has tattoos, they bond over this, cute nicknames (tokki and nabi <3), one bed trope?? kinda, jaykay lives w/ yoongi and tae (they are streamers too (and dj?? (tae is a bit unhinged))), jungkook wears calvins!, a singular appearance of yoongi in his boxers!!, tipsy hookup, fingering, protected sex (woo!), desk sex, oral (m receiving), girliepop swallows <3, brief mentions of jungkook's starry eyes, lots of kisses, bunny ears, (1) mention of cross-fit
wordcount: 13011
note from holly: this was a commission done for the lovely Michelle over on my kofi page!! i don't open commissions often, but when I do I'm very lucky that the requests are so much fun. this actually ended up being way longer than it was supposed to be lol and is also available on wattpad!! also fun facts for you - I imagine the boys apartment (and jks room!) to be same as jk + jimins place in BD, just a little bigger lmao
minors dni // cross posted to wattpad
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CLUB SUNDOWN WAUSAN-RO, HONGDAE SATURDAY 02:24
Time ceases to exist after the sun goes down in Seoul. It could be two, or it could be five. The only thing that really clues you in on the actual time is the DJ schedule that lights up behind the decks: 02:00-03:00, Blu-Tae.
It's some guy you've never heard of. Looks no older than you. Probably a student, just like the rest of the crowd.
His hair is as blue as his namesake, which does make you smile, and his choices aren't bad either (even if somewhat questionable). You've never heard a jazz remix of Darude's Sandstorm before, and you doubt you ever will again.
Club Sundown is just as rogue as the rest of the city after the sun goes down. Hidden in the basement—like all the best places in Seoul are—the small room is packed to the absolute brim.
Who cares for views and sunsets offered by rooftop bars when you could lose yourself in the debauchery of an eternal midnight, instead?
Drinks are spilt on strangers, and dances have lost the grandeur of old-fashioned waltzes. It's not like you could dance properly, even if you wanted to. There's just simply no space.
Like Alice, you're down the rabbit hole—and oh, how you prefer it to being in the real world. In the shadows, you can be anyone you like.
If you were sober, you'd know this is also the case for daily life. You're in a new country with no ties to your former self. Who you are is who you choose to be.
But the shadows aren't all that dark. The red lights of the club bleed into the cracks, painting everyone in the same subtle hue of danger.
They shine a little light on the identifiers of you; the thin black lines of your patchwork tattoos. Trailing up your arm, they're memories of your past selves, and an indicator of who you hope to become.
"Down this," you say to your dormmate, Rae, handing back over the drink you've just ordered from the bar. "Cloakroom, then dance."
Still carrying your winter coats, you'd wanted to check the place out before committing to it. Entry is free, but the cloakroom is the same price as a drink. It would only be worth putting your coats away if you knew you wanted to stay—and given the fact the DJ was playing O-Zone's Dragostea Din Tei as you entered, you know it's a no-brainer. While his stage name might make you roll your eyes a little, Blu-Tae certainly does cater to your tastes. When you're drunk, and music vibrates through you, it's empyrean. No place you'd rather be.
"Oh, Jesus," Rae gags as she sips the drink you've just handed her. Despite her disgust, she's laughing. Head to toe in black, dark hair loose around her shoulders, she's been your ride-or-die since you arrived in Seoul. Both international students in the same dorm, there's no one you'd rather get up to no good with. "Vodka?!"
You beam at her like you're from the heavens above, wrongfully relegated to the depths of sin. Pretend like you love vodka. It's totally not like you panicked when you saw the menu was all in Korean.
Vodka-coke is a universally understood delicacy—the easiest thing for you to order without making a tit of yourself or butchering the pronunciation. When the bartender ignored your botched attempt at ordering in Korean and answered in fluent English, you'd wanted to melt into the floor. So embarrassing.
You're here, like most foreign students, for a language course. Semester is yet to start, and as much as you've studied and practised hard, it's always different when putting it into practice.
"I'm sorry," you laugh. "It's fine—you can order next time!"
But Rae has the exact same predicament as you. If anything, your language skills are better than hers, so you really have no hope. It's vodka-cokes for the evening, or maybe highballs. Once your tipsy brain manages to compute hangul cocktail names, you'll be golden, but that won't be for another few weeks, yet.
You'll look back at this time of your life fondly, realising how simple it all was, even if it feels incredibly overwhelming right now.
Funnily enough, hope is exactly what you have: for the semester ahead, for this new life you're forging, for the opportunities that may come your way.
In fact, by the time you're on your third vodka coke, you've managed to convince yourself you actually like it. You also can't taste it, thanks to the bartender freepouring a 60-40 ratio of vodka to coke in the first drink. Your tastebuds were wiped out pretty much instantly.
Coats in the cloakroom, you're glad to be wearing thin layers. The room is stuffy; your skin sweaty. While meeting new friends had been the goal, you keep to yourself. Dance like nobody is watching. Hold Rae's hands to stay close and ward off weirdos. Quickly realise that clubs back home are slightly different. Pay it no mind. Ignore the intrusions of hands on waists, because men, disappointingly, are no different.
Or at least most of them aren't.
But most of them don't look like the man in the corner booth, laughing with his friends.
Though he is tall, he's eclipsed by his demeanour. Shoulders broad, he's in a dark T-shirt and pair of jeans. Nothing special. Nothing that warrants such a perplexed stare from you - but he's familiar. You can't place him, but he's got the kind of face you swear you've seen before.
Rae doesn't notice the change in your poise, nor how you're desperately trying to work out where you know him from. Perhaps you've seen him around your university? It's only been a couple of weeks, but people are steadily moving in. Maybe he works at the convenience store you constantly find yourself in? Or mans the front desk of the noraebang you and Rae visit pretty much every other evening?
Impossible, you think. If you'd seen him before, you wouldn't have forgotten him, or the way he constantly toys with his lip rings. Plural. There are signs up around the place stating bar rules. NO SMOKING is rule number three. You've seen his friends pass him over a vape a handful of times. Anyone else, and you'd think it was cringe. Embarrassing.
But in the midst of his laughter settling, and a fresh toke being inhaled, his eyes flicker towards yours.
Perhaps it's just because you're drunk, but you don't avert your gaze. Show no shame. The smile on his lips sinks into a smirk as he exhales. An acknowledgement. A 'hello, trouble'.
Again, any other man, you'd find the vape smoke repugnant. Nasty. Now? Watching the way he flicks his tongue against his lip rings?
You wanna know how it tastes.
Black ink weaves an intricate outline of who he is up his arms. Where he's been. Who he's been. A map, if you will, of his soul.
Much like your own tattoos, he's got thick black lines, and little else. Simple, you assume. A man of convenience. Efficiency.
You wonder if he does everything in life with the precision to match his tattoos, and as your lips wrap around the straw of your vodka-coke, you decide you'd quite like to find out.
Interrupted by Rae pulling you deeper into the crowd, your night is spent in and out of shadows. Attempt subtlety. Try not to make your occasional glances to the corner booth noticeable, just checking if his eyes are still on you. More often than not, they aren't—but sometimes they are, and that's enough to fuel your little flirt.
It's not until the sign behind the DJ booth changes from 03:00-04:00, GLOSS into some other guy that you notice your staring contest opponent has slipped into the shadows himself. The booth is void of both him and his friends. Gone.
"GLOSS has a set at another club," Rae all but yells in your ear, and even then, you barely hear her. "All the hotties left when he did. Let's go."
"Where to?!" You laugh, empty cup in hand. Admittedly, the new guy who's stepped into the DJ booth is just not doing it for you. Blu-Tae was just the right amount of unhinged with classics, whereas GLOSS was definitely cooler, but still fun. Had the club yelling curse words over trap remixes just for the fun of it. This new guy, whose name you don't care to remember, takes himself too seriously, you think.
"It's, like, two blocks down," she yells back, tugging on your wrist to drag you to the stairwell that leads you back up to the streets of Seoul. The hustle and bustle of people trying to go in different directions in the tight place forces you apart, but you figure you'll catch up with her, or that she'll be waiting at the top.
You don't know the roads well enough yet to make it to whichever club it's at alone, and quickly realise when you nearly tumble into the side of a waiting taxi that you're far drunker than expected. Knew the bartender was freepouring, but didn't realise just how free those pours really were.
"Woah, easy trouble," a deep voice sounds from behind you as you're steadied to a more stable position.
"I'm good, I'm good!" You insist, shaking off the hands of your 'saviour'. Have no interest in being a damsel in distress, or some sober guy trying to take advantage of you.
Looking down to check your laces are tied properly, you check over your shoulder to make sure the guy isn't creepily waiting for a thank you that he can turn into an intrusive game of 21 questions—'are you open-minded?' or 'do you live alone?'—but when you glance in his direction, you regret it. Notice the tattoos immediately. Recognise the eyes. Want to die.
"Oh."
"Oh," he says back with a smile, imitating you. Suddenly, the confidence you'd had earlier when looking at him from afar dissolves into nothingness, just like the alcohol in your bloodstream. You feel rather sober, but your body would definitely disagree. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," you nod, suddenly a little stuck for words, desperately trying to play things cool. "Are you okay?"
The pouting of his lips as his tongue runs along the inside of his cheek only serves to make you internally cringe. Men who look like him have no business being on streets like this. Should be in a museum. Strung up on the walls with the other masterpieces. Admired by everyone who looks his way.
In a way you don't yet realise, he is.
Though he's not in galleries, he's often burning into people's laptop screens. Is the background of a fair few thousand lock screens. Indeed, he is admired by everyone who looks his way, just not in the traditional sense.
"I'm not the one who just fell into a car," he reminds you, as if you could forget your embarrassment so quickly.
"Was just seeing if you'd catch me," you bullshit, the confidence you usually have returning tenfold. Was just a momentary blip. He's just a man, after all.
"Oh?" He chirps, decidedly curious. "So you fell for me?"
"Stumbled."
"Semantics."
His fluency, and the fact he just said 'semantics' so casually in conversation, clues you in on the fact he might be a language student, too. 
Could be useful study partners for each other, you think, then mentally berate yourself for already masterminding ways to see him again.
"So, where you going?" He asks, not caring to downplay his curiosity. The bartenders were free-pouring his drinks just as severely as they poured yours. The only difference is that his were on the house—'cause you were right. He does have a recognisable face. "Should probably go with you. Make sure you don't fall into the road."
"Stumble," you insist, a little pleased with the boldness of his suggestion, but not wanting to blindly agree. "My friend," you say glancing around, only to find yourself completely alone. "She wanted to go catch the next GLOSS set. So, I guess that's where we're going."
"Just down the road," he says, knowing the schedule like the back of his hand. Bounces from club to club supporting his friends, just like they would for him. If he wanted, he could get a slot up there, too. He doesn't care for it. "I'll walk with you, if you want? My friends are heading there anyway."
It's not a bad offer.
In fact, it's probably the best offer you'll get all night.
"C'mon," he nods his head to the side, encouraging you to follow him. Checks his phone for the time. "Starts in five."
If there's one thing you've indulged in since moving to Seoul, it's how safe you always feel. Security cameras are on every corner, and you've walked home countless times without any issues, even late into the night. While the place isn't perfect, it's far safer than your home country.
Still, you're not a complete idiot.
"It's not wise to follow strange men down dark alleys," you tell him.
He holds out his hand. Waits for you to shake it. Cocks a brow when you hesitate, so introduces himself.
"Jungkook. Nice to meet you. Now, can we please hurry up? I promised I'd be there."
Narrowing your eyes, you don't shake his hand. Arms folded over your chest, there is ice to your exterior, and given how warm his eyes are, you doubt it'll last for very long. May as well keep up this hard-to-get act while you still can.
Walking on past him, you call back, "Alright then. Lead the way."
In the domed mirror meant for reversing cars at the end of a tight alley, you see him laugh. "Wrong way, idiot."
Pausing, you scrunch your face up. Don't turn to face him for at least a second or so—but when you do, you're surprised to see him walking towards you. Hooking his arm around your waist, he carries on walking in the 'wrong' direction, taking you with him.
"Was just fucking with you," he grins. Nods towards a sign by another basement entrance, listing both Blu-Tae and GLOSS.
By the door, Rae is looking around like a mother duck who's just lost some of her ducklings when crossing the road. Breathes a sigh of relief when she spots you.
"C'mon," she grins, then realises who you're with. Says nothing of it, 'cause she doesn't want to be weird, but she recognises him, too. Decides she's just had a little too much to drink. There's no way it's him. Holds out her hand for you.
Reaching out for her, you're let go from Jungkook's grip, ready to get lost in the lights once more.
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HAEJANG24 WAUSAN-RO, HONGDAE SATURDAY 05:53
Seoul is a city for the nocturnal. The restaurants and bars are open until the last men are standing. Given how much you've had to drink, you're surprised you still are.
Rae had dipped an hour or so ago. Had hit it off with Mr Blu-Tae himself. Seduced him with the suggestion that their couple name would be Blu-Rae. He'd said they should go to a DVD-bang. Would be fitting. See what Blu-rays were on file.
Naturally, you'd looked on with mild disgust and also admiration for how quickly she'd worked her magic. Everyone knows what goes down in DVD-bangs. Small private rooms, often with projector screens and the world's least comfortable futons, they're somewhere you hope to never end up—but also can't wait to hear all the details the next morning when Rae comes to your room for a debrief.
You'd been left under the surveillance of Jungkook.
"Look after her," Rae had instructed, then narrowed her eyes. "Or I'll destroy your reputation with a single twitter thread, Tokki."
It's a threat he's taken seriously. Knows how the internet works, and even though he's never done anything worthy of a cancellation, he also doesn't intend on starting now. The fact you seem to have no idea who he is during the daylight hours intrigues him. It's a rarity on streets like these.
Even when a few people asked for pictures with him on your walk to the hangover soup place, you didn't clock it as weird. Figured they were friends passing by, wanting to document their chance run-in. Just another memory of the night. The way Jungkook had greeted them was full of warmth, and kindness. Why wouldn't you assume they were mates?
You were also still incredibly drunk at the time, so didn't think to question it. Was keen for food, and Jungkook had insisted on hangover soup, and so that's where you are. Dishes nearly empty, far more of it eaten by him than you, you're laughing about nothing and everything all at once.
"Right," Jungkook declares, deciding he cannot hold in a question that's been tickling at his brain for the entire meal. "What the fuck is that?"
Coat left in the cloakroom, long forgotten about, your tattoos are on full display for him, just like his are for you. Up your arm they trail; a patchwork of teeny tiny identifiers. Latin phrases around skulls, birth flowers of the people you hold close, butterflies and stars. There's an ode to your favourite musician and your favourite Shakespeare quote, too. The fabric of you etched into your skin. There's no reinventing yourself, even half the world away from home.
You know precisely which tattoo Jungkook is asking about. You've asked yourself the same question a few times.
"Fuck off," you laugh.
While most of your tattoos are gorgeous, there's one that was done by a rogue artist on a girlie holiday a few years ago. What was supposed to be a seashell now looks like... well, nothing really. It's just a blob, thanks to the artist being absolutely terrible. The only solace you find in it is that your two best friends have an equally awful permanent reminder of that holiday on their bodies, too.
"It doesn't look how it's supposed to," you explain with a little pout. "I got royally screwed over."
He cocks a brow. You still haven't told him what it is. He isn't gonna ask you twice.
With a grumble, you feebly admit, "A shell."
And then he's laughing. Really laughing. Laughing so hard you think he might piss himself—which you'd actually prefer, because then he could be the embarrassed one, instead.
"I'm calling you Shelly from now on," he says with a broad smile. Has had his fair share of tattoo blunders, and knows you must've developed an affection towards how shitty it is. Would have gotten it covered up, otherwise. "That's incredible."
"You're calling me so such thing," you assure him, but you also can't help but laugh.
"I am," he tells you, then really solidifies it. "Shelly."
"Fuck off," you whine, doubling down. Scanning his arms, you try and pick out anything you can use against him, too. "If I'm Shelly, then you're Mike."
"Mike?!" He protests.
"Yeah," you insist, pointing towards the microphone on his forearm. "Mike."
"You are not calling me Mike. Do I look like a Mike?!"
"Do I look like a Shelly?!"
You've got a point. It's not the name he would have first associated with you - but it is cute, he thinks. Cute how mortified you seem. Cute how you can't help but smile.
After a little bit of back and forth, it's decided that neither of you look like your namesakes.
"Y'know, we kinda have matching tattoos," he says, holding out his arm for you to study. "Or at least, the placements."
And sure enough, below his elbow lives the outline of a bunny sitting on a crescent moon. Holding your own arm out next to his, below your elbow is a butterfly. Above it, is a teeny tiny moon.
Like Jungkook's moon, it's a crescent. Was supposed to symbolise new beginnings. You wonder what his means, but don't ask. Instead, you marvel at the coincidence of it all.
He presses his index finger against the butterfly on the inside of your forearm. The echoing chatter of the restaurant fades softly into nothingness as he says, "Nabi."
You nod. Even if you have spoken with him in English this entire time, it's nice to hear him speak in his mother tongue, no matter how minimal - so you reciprocate. Press your index finger against his bunny. Smile. Say, "Tokki."
It further confirms to Jungkook that you have no idea who he is. Has been a while since he's met a girl in a circumstance like this where that's the case. Likes the anonymity of it all. Is hiding his identity from you, and yet hasn't felt such vulnerability for years.
"Daltokki, right?" You continue, not wanting the silence to linger for too long. "The rabbit in the moon?"
You're not wrong, but you're also not entirely right.
"Yeah," he smiles regardless. "That's it."
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JUNGKOOK'S APARTMENT ITAEWON-DONG, YONGSAN-GU SATURDAY 07:12
"Shhh," Jungkook quietly laughs. 
His hand is over your mouth and the other is on your hip as he guides you into his apartment. With your back to his chest, you've both been giggling for the entire ride to his place.
He had insisted that he should walk you home, and was surprised by the offense you seemed to have taken by this. You then told him that he absolutely could not seduce you, and that it was very gender-role-conforming for him to think that you were incapable of getting home by yourself.
"Maybe I should be the one to make sure you get home safely," you had said with a false sense of concern, which had made him laugh quite considerably.
In all reality, you didn't mind him offering to get you home. You just hadn't tidied your room. Didn't really expect to be taking a boy back to your place, much less one that looks like him.
Together, you'd caught the early morning bus over to Itaewon instead of a taxi, 'cause you're still on a student budget and Jungkook wasn't quite ready to blow his cover just yet.
You've been teasing him—questioning his status as a potential International Super Spy—ever since he took your hand and guided you into one of the flashiest apartment complexes you've ever been in. There was security. Doormen. A passcode for the elevator—not to mention that he was heading up to the seventh floor once you were in it. Might not sound like much, but when there are only seven floors to the entire building, it makes it the penthouse by default.
"It's not a penthouse," he'd insisted. "Plus, I live with friends. Only pay a third of the rent."
But a third of his rent is more money than you'll probably see in three months of post-grad work. You're drunk, but you're not stupid. You also know that the rental market here differs significantly from your home country. Monthly rent is cheap, but the deposits are extortionate. Sure, he'll get it back when he leaves, but to have the initial money needed for a place like this? He's not a regular student, if one at all, that much is sure.
"Not sure who's home," Jungkook whispers as you both kick your shoes off in the entryway. Given the looks of the other shoes, it's clear that this is a guys-only living situation. You're proven right when he continues, "Betcha Tae's still in that damn DVD-bang, but Yoongi might be back."
"Yoongi?" You question.
"GLOSS," Jungkook says, remembering how oblivious you are to who he is. Reaching down to grab your shoes, he isn't gonna leave them by the door. Will take them to his room. Doesn't want the boys asking questions, if they are in. Knows they'll just use it as an excuse to publicly roast him whenever they're next online together.
Given that a stream is scheduled for Sunday night, he doesn't want to tempt fate.
Their current choice of wind-up, which the viewers have been eating up, is the joke that Jungkook is a virgin. He's not, but he never knows how to defend himself without sounding like a tool, so always gets a little awkward. A lot of their viewers love it. Join in on the joke. Some take it seriously. He doesn't care.
Next month, Taehyung will do something dumb, and he'll become the favourite joke for a while. Maybe Yoongi. But for now, it's Jungkook.
None of them take it to heart. They're just a group of friends who share their gaming hangouts online, and accidentally made it to the top of the ranks.
They aren't particularly good at gaming, but that's part of the charm. Crescent Collective is how they're known: Blu-Tae, GLOSS and Tokki.
After a bet went wrong, and they all lost, they ended up with moon tattoos and their respective 'symbols'. Jungkook's is a rabbit, Tae's is a blu-ray DVD disk (because he really is committed to the bit), and Yoongi's is stars to symbolise the shine of fresh gloss. Jungkook's makes the most sense. Yoongi's is pretty decent. Taehyung's is just... Well, it's very him.
Sliding open the door into the main living area, Jungkook has to cover your mouth again when you gasp at the sheer size of the place.
"I thought butterflies were supposed to be silent?" He teases. "Quiet for me, Nabi."
His place is bigger than your family home, you think. Hushing you again, he's laughing—and then he's cursing at the sight of a half-naked Yoongi by the kitchen counter.
In his boxers, with half a clementine slice hanging from his lips, he's just as shocked to see Jungkook with you. Gets over it pretty quickly.
"Don't mind me," he says, chewing down on the fruit with a smirk. Looks towards you. "Apologies for the lack of clothes."
With your shoes hooked on his fingers, Jungkook's other large hand is still over your mouth. You're not sure you can form any words as it is, but you do notice the crescent moon and stars on Yoongi's ribs.
"Not a word to Tae," is all Jungkook says. Knows that he'll be in for a world of teasing tomorrow if he gets wind of it. "I mean it."
Holding his hands up, Yoongi's still smirking, but he is backing away into a room just off the kitchen. "My lips are sealed."
Watching as he closes the door, you wonder how much truth is in his words. Jungkook knows it's absolute bullshit. Chooses not to dwell on it. Loosens his grip on you and heads towards his own room. Turns back to check you're following him, and can't help but smile when he knows that you are.
Tossing your shoes just inside the door, Jungkook is quick to pick up a pair of jeans he'd left on the floor, before chucking them over his desk chair. He tweaks his bedding. Straightens it out. Looks a little shy as he turns to face you.
"Made it home safe," he says quietly, as you close the door behind you.
You nod. Keep a little distance. Say, "It's dangerous to sleep after drinking. Make sure you build a tower of pillows in the middle of your bed so you don't roll onto your back."
Both of you are far more sober than you were earlier. There's no need to worry about anything like that.
And yet he nods, now. Says, "You're probably right. You can always stay, though. Just to check I don't die in my sleep, or whatever."
"It'd be the responsible thing to do," you nod, wondering if he can tell just how fast your heart is beating. "But I don't have any pyjamas."
Jungkook swallows. The way he looks at you now is entirely different to how he'd looked at you in the club. Back then, he'd been bold. Flirtatious.
Now, he seems vulnerable. Needy.
"I sleep in my underwear," he tells you, unsure if you'll actually be sleeping. While he likes the idea of fucking you, part of him doesn't want to. Fears it'll ruin the magic of the unknown. The way he throbs at the mere thought of it would suggest that his hopes outweigh his fears. "I don't mind, if you don't."
The clothes Jungkook's wearing are baggy. You've seen nothing of his figure.
Reaching for the nape of his neck, he tugs on the fabric of his T-shirt. Pulls it over his head and discards it in one swift movement. The sound of it crumpling on the floor is abrasive in how it makes you feel. Raw. Unrefined. You suppose it's just a natural consequence of seeing the toned muscles of his chest. How his waist defies what you thought was possible for masculine builds, and how broad his chest is. The indent of his collarbones, and the lines of his pelvis that draw your eyes downwards.
A pair of Calvins peek just above the waistband of his jeans, and a silver chain rests around his neck. Light from the city filters in, and LED lights around his impressive computer set-up paint him in a hue of violet.
"No," you manage to reply, which is a miracle, you think. "I don't mind."
And then you reciprocate. Reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head, letting the fabric fall to the floor. Seeing him swallow back his nerves, or maybe his desires, makes you feel far bolder than you should.
"It's really uncomfortable to sleep in jeans," you tell him.
He nods. Agrees. Threads the button of his trousers through its loop. Doesn't take them off yet. Waits for you to do the same. Keeps his eyes firmly locked on yours. Doesn't let his gaze wander, no matter how much he has to fight all his instincts not to fully take you in. Is still pretending like he doesn't want you in the most indecent of ways.
The room you're in right now is known worldwide. 
People set it as their zoom backgrounds. It's on Pinterest. There are YouTube videos attempting to recreate the set-up. If he were to power up his computer—which, in all fairness, is only on standby—and go live, there'd be a thousand viewers within minutes. Doesn't matter what he plays, or who he's with. He doesn't give it much thought anymore. Is just life.
Sometimes, he regrets not being a faceless streamer, but he also knows that it's part of the appeal. Connection, and the fantasy that comes with this almost dystopian, parasocial idea of it.
After all, the meeting of his eyes with yours across a busy club led you to this point. Human connection in the simplest of ways, that he thinks could culminate in the most complex of ways, too.
"Okay," he says. "So take them off."
"You want me to?" You ask just to tease a little bit, and when a smile flickers onto his seemingly nervous lips, you're glad you did.
"You think we'd be here right now if I didn't?" He says with a tweak of his brows.
"You've got a point."
With that, you push your jeans down and reveal the matching set of black underwear you're in. It's nothing special. In fact, it's not really a set, but it's close enough that it'd fool anyone who didn't know.
Jungkook, in this moment, is indeed a beautiful fool.
There's a lopsided grin on his face as he lets his eyes rake down your body. Is shameless as he indulges in you. Nods, as he bites down on his bottom lip.
"It's cold," you tell him, urging him along a little bit.
"Shit," he says without much thought. "Sorry. Was just... Yeah. Shit."
It's both endearing and wholly confusing how Jungkook flips from confident to cute. A man of duality. It makes you giggle, and then you're the one biting down on your bottom lip. Are both a little bashful. A little shy.
"I'm only here to make sure you don't die in your sleep," you remind him before it goes any further.
Looking at him now, knowing you want him in the worst of ways, it's testing all of your willpower not to just cut to the chase.
Thing is, you liked his company tonight. Want it again. Want to give him a reason to seek you out once more. Want him thinking about you in clubs, and looking for you in crowded bars. Pining. Yearning. Needy.
"It's already gone seven," he tells you, walking towards his bed. Knocks his head to the side. Silently tells you to follow suit. "Will probably only get a couple hours in."
"Better than nothing. Plus, you're actually really irritating," you bullshit as you get into bed with him. Are adamant you won't fuck him, but you do let him pull you in closer.
"Oh, yeah?" He grins.
"Mhmm," you nod, pretending as if you aren't looking at his lips. "You'll be less annoying when you're asleep."
"I'm never gonna sleep again," he assures you. "Will annoy you forever."
"I know where the front door is," you say as you stroke a few of his loose, wavy hairs back behind his ears. They fall freely almost right away, but it just gives you another excuse to play with it "I can just leave. I'm only here to make sure you don't die in your sleep. Pointless if you're awake."
"So I have to be asleep for you to stay?"
"Mhmm," you hum.
He immediately loosens his grip on you and flops into an overdramatic sleeping position. Fake snores. Gets you giggling. Can't hide his smile, either. Laughs through the god-awful noises he's making.
But it is late, and you're both tired. As much as he'd like to stay awake with you, the pull of sleep is just too tempting now that you're beneath his sheets. It's not like he doesn't wanna fuck you. His semi is very much present, but neither of you mention it.
"Y'know what's sad about butterflies?" Jungkook mumbles after the laughter dies down. He carefully begins to trace the lines of your tattoo, eyes entirely focused on the tip of his finger.
You purr a response before you fully vocalise one. "Tell me."
He glances up at you only very momentarily. Looks back down. Is quiet when he says, "How quickly they die. Spend over half their lifespan growing into these beautiful creatures, and then they have, what—A week? Two? Three, tops—and then they're gone. It's like the cherry blossoms in spring. Beautiful, and then—" He clicks his fingers. "—gone."
Stroking back some loose strands of his hair, you wonder if he's thinking about you. About this chance encounter. Beautiful, then gone.
"Just means you have to appreciate them while they're still around," you say softly. "Cherish them, because you know you only have them for a moment."
His gaze lifts to meet yours. The reflection of his LED lights makes it seem like butterflies are floating around in his deep, dark eyes, too.
There are stories he could tell you of ancient folklore; about human souls taking the form of butterflies. Of justice, and peace, and spirits. Of back in time, when tigers still smoked. He could tell you of his favourite butterflies. Of the black butterflies that are as large as his hands in the summer. Of the huge display in a museum downtown that would transfix him as a child.
Instead, he gently presses his lips against the lines of your butterfly tattoo.
The rate at which your heart is beating multiplies. Like a swarm of butterflies chasing through your veins, you've no control over the way you're feeling. He's brought your artwork to life; set the souls inside of your butterfly free, only for it to be apparent that the souls belonged to the both of you, anyway.
You know that this is one of those moments; a butterfly passing on by through your lives. Here, and then gone. Beautiful, but fleeting.
There's a shyness to Jungkook now, as he rolls onto his back. A reluctance to get things wrong. He doesn't look at you, just nibbles on his bottom lip and pretends as if the empty white ceiling ahead of him is the most interesting thing he's seen all night.
It's not.
You are.
You, and those eyes that make him feel like the butterfly on your arm is tickling at his tummy. He finds himself jealous when he faces you again and begins tracing the thin lines of your butterfly once more. Wants to embed himself into you like the ink that's carved out a home in your skin.
"Sorry," he mumbles, seemingly regretful of the tender kiss he'd pressed against your arm just a short moment ago. "Don't know why I did that."
"It's okay," you reply without much thought. Like him, you're letting the way you feel dictate the words you say. Care not for playing coy. "I liked it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Jungkook wants to stop his mouth from letting his desires escape. The issue is, he drank a little too much tonight and his lips are a little too loose. Too bad. Can't help himself from asking, "Can I do it again?"
You're just as bad.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Please."
The way his lashes splay against his cheeks as he presses another kiss to your arm is nothing short of celestial. Like that damn moon on his arm, he's got a beauty about him that's hard to capture in words. Ethereal feels too fantastical, but gorgeous feels too dense. He resides in a realm somewhere between the two. Somewhere you'd like to stay forever.
Forever, sadly, only lasts a few hours. You've brunch plans with new friends you can't bail on yet for fear of running a friendship before it's even begun.
You see yourself out. Jungkook's still asleep. Not quite 10AM, you've a dozen missed calls from Rae, and a cold can of coke waiting for you in your fridge. Funnily enough, though, you don't really feel hungover. Must have gotten it all out of your system the night before.
It's only fitting, when you think about Jungkook on the subway home, and how soberingly drunk the idea of him makes you feel. 
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YONSEI UNIVERSITY DORMS DAESIN-DONG, SEODAEMUN-GU SUNDAY 21:39
Brunch had, predictably, been a yawn-fest.
The people were perfectly nice, but you spent the entire time thinking about Jungkook; how you'd left him in a pretty slumber, the LEDs behind his computer still glowing, with not even so much as a note to say thank you.
It's not like he had any paper on his desk, and you weren't about to start rummaging around his room. You also didn't want to wake him. Part of it was because you knew you'd be saying goodbye, and the concept of that was one that you didn't like all that much.
And so your subway ride back to your dorm had been spent searching his name. He didn't take long to find. 
From the club's Instagram, you found GLOSS and quickly discovered that there was far more to both him and Blu-Tae than just being DJs. Their follower counts were wild. Numbers you know you'll never see on your own account. Verification check marks accented their display names. 
Who are you? You'd thought to yourself, incredibly perplexed by it all.
Jungkook was littered all over their pages, and yet it still took a while for you to click through to his account. You're not sure why, but think that perhaps the unknown was a nice place to reside within. Safer. 
CR3SC3NT_T0KK1 was his username—and curiously, Tokki was also his display name. Brows furrowed, you'd almost dropped your phone when you saw his follower count. It eclipsed both of his friends. 
Filled with gaming set-ups, merch drops, and general life dumps, it was pretty clear that whoever Jungkook had made himself out to be the night before was not who he was in real life. 
Equal parts offended and intrigued, you were only more confused when you saw that Rae was already following him—but not following Taehyung.
"What?" she'd beamed when you'd asked her about it after you'd arrived home from brunch, a scoop of hangover ice cream being waved around in the air with her flamboyant gestures. "He's, like, one of the biggest streamers in the country—and if I want to keep Tae obsessed with me, we need as many connections as possible. Jungkook's a frog to me, baby, not a prince. Don't you worry your little cotton socks. I'm not after him."
"I wouldn't care if you were," you'd blatantly lied in response, and then you'd giggled together at how ridiculous you were both being over boys you didn't really know.
Hovering over the bright purple 'JOIN STREAM' button later that evening, part of you holds back. Think it'd be weird. Strange. That he'd somehow know it was you.
Dipping your mouse, you tick the checkbox to join as an anonymous viewer. Take a breath. Think fuck it. Watch with bated breath as the loading wheel turns—and then he's there.
Jeon Jungkook has the kind of beauty that transcends shitty quality streams. Smiling as he jokes with one of his friends through a headset with a pair of black bunny ears affixed to the top of them, you hear a voice you almost recognise. Notice the friend he's streaming with in the top corner. Realise you do know him, too.
Hair as blue as the trees are green, Tae has just as much boyish charm as Jungkook, but also an incredibly large hickey that seems to match the ones on Rae's neck.
"Nah, can we get an L in the chat for Kook," he's teasing. Sure enough, the chat begins to explode with the letter, and Jungkook looks so pretty when he protests.
"It's not an L!"
"It is!" Tae insists. "Should have seen him, guys. Was following this girl around like a lovesick puppy—"
"No, I wasn't!"
"And she didn't even give him her number. Not even her name!"
"That's not true!" Jungkook whines. He switches between Korean and English with ease, sometimes just single words, other times whole sentences. "I have a name."
"What is it?"
"Not telling you."
"Cause you don't have one!"
"No, because you'll all make my life a living hell," Jungkook laughs—and then notices a bright blue comment lighting up in the chat. His eyes widen. "Fuck."
GLOSS: Was calling her Nabi when he got home last night Almost shit his pants when he saw me
"Yoongi, I'm gonna shave your eyebrows off in your sleep," Jungkook growls—only for the chat to start spamming butterfly emojis. Closing his eyes, he leans back in his chair, the still paused video game long forgotten about, now. Thousands of people are in their chat, and even more are watching the stream.
"Guys, get it trending," Taehyung goads. "Tweet, I dunno, bunny and butterfly emojis."
"Don't do that!"
"Hashtag find Jungkook's butterfly."
"Do NOT do that!"
"I'm like a modern-day cupid," Taehyung beams.
"I'm shaving your eyebrows, too."
Closing the stream, you sit for a moment, mouth ajar, unable to process what on earth you've just witnessed. Part of you feels as if it must have an incredibly vivid daydream; a projection of your heart's desire.
And you know you shouldn't, but when you get home from running errands the following day, you join the stream again. Blush when you notice the chat is still teasing Jungkook.
"I'm gonna block you all," he threatens them with a grin, which only encourages them to send even more butterfly emojis.
The next day is no different, nor the day after that.
He is, though. Has been letting it all play on his mind. Doesn't have much of a filter when it comes to streaming.
"What if she didn't even like me, guys," he whines to the chat. "And sees this and is like... mortified. I think I'd punch myself in the face if she ever saw any of this."
You toy with the idea of sending a comment into the chat. Something that only he'd realise was you. Thing is, you feel bad for intruding. As if you shouldn't be prying. As if you're eavesdropping on him chatting with friends, and not on the stream he's broadcasting live around the world.
Typing out a message, you deliberate your choice.
Punch urself in the face pls, tokki x the message reads. 
Simple. Effective. To the point.
But everyone calls him that, you stupidly realise, now.
And so you change the name to 'Mike'. 
Before you can even really realise what you've done, you've pressed send.
The message flitters into the chat feed. He's about to resume his game. Doesn't notice it at first.
Gives the chat one final glance, and then his eyes widen. He sits up taller. Straighter. "Mike?"
You close the lid of your laptop immediately.
"Fuck."
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THE STREETS WAUSAN-RO, HONGDAE FRIDAY 23:51
"Tae is on in five," Rae squeals, dragging you down the road at lightning speed. 
You'd spent far too long at dinner, and also had far too much to drink with your food, so have been forced to make an undignified sprint to the club in an attempt to make it in before the place reaches capacity.
There's already a queue. You can see it from a mile away.
Realistically, Rae could have gotten Taehyung to add her to the guest list. He'd offered. She didn't wanna look needy, so had played it coy about her plans for the evening. 
After a single beer and soju, she'd decided that the idea of him hooking up with anyone but her simply wouldn't do.
"Shit," she sighs in defeat, looking at the queue. The direction you've come from means that you reach the entrance before you reach the queue, but even then, you can tell it goes around the block. "Are there no other clubs these people can go to?!"
There are—but this club is rammed tonight for the same reason Club Sundown was rammed the week before. People want to see the Crescent Collective. 
You didn't realise it at the time, but you'd bypassed the queue of the second club last weekend because Jungkook had been with you.
And as if by a stroke of luck, or perhaps a twist of fate, the same tattooed hand that had held you as you slept last weekend is now putting out a cigarette just a few steps away.
Eyes landing on yours, he looks away again, almost immediately. Feels embarrassed. Stupid. For the way you left him, and also for the way he knows you must know who he is, now.
Behind a red rope, he's away from the general crowd. It's sort of obnoxious, you think—but also know Jungkook is anything but.
"They're with me," Jungkook says to the bouncer, not really looking at you, but nodding in your general direction. Is deliberately keeping a little distance. Instead, he says to Rae, "Tae wouldn't want you waiting in line."
Nodding, the security guard makes way for you, stamping the backs of your hands with UV-activated ink as you walk past.
"Thank you!" Rae beams.
"No worries," Jungkook smiles right back. "He's about to start. Was just getting air. You're lucky you arrived when you did."
"Angel," she praises. "I'll get you a drink while we're in there."
You know her well enough now to know that she absolutely will not, but you don't say anything. Instead, you fold your arms over your chest as you walk, suddenly feeling all awkward in Jungkook's presence.
"Nabi," he curtly greets you as you head down the stairs.
"Tokki," you greet him back just as formally. Consider calling him 'Mike' instead, but you chicken out.
Face scrunching up, Jungkook tries his best not to cringe at himself. Doesn't know if you're addressing him by his tattoo moniker, or just calling him Tokki because you know it's his identifier online.
"How have you been?" He asks, not wanting to let it simmer.
"Alright," you say, aware of how awkward this all feels, as you descend the stairs and into the club. The music is getting louder, and soon you won't be able to hear him talk unless you're in each other's ears. "And you?"
"Alright."
Just as quickly as he appeared, Jungkook is lost to the crowd. 
He doesn't care to stick around if he's just going to be hung out to dry by you again. He tells himself that he only made sure you got in to keep Rae happy for Taehyung's sake—yet as he rejoins his friends in their booth, he finds himself desperately seeking you out again.
It takes him a while, but he eventually spots you by the bar in conversation with Rae. He can't make out what you're saying, but notices how your eyes are flickering around the room. Seems as if you're hunting for something. 
Deep down, even if he pretends like he doesn't, he hopes it's for him.
Pulled away from your search by the bartender passing over drinks to the pair of you, Jungkook feels bad. Knows the drinks are pricey in this place. Also knows, from the conversations you've already had, that you're on a tight budget. Had said that once the semester starts, you'll stop going to parties. Are seemingly unaware of the fact the parties never stop in this city. You'll learn.
When your eyes finally land on his a little while later, you're surprised by his intense gaze—intrigued by his lack of shame for being caught out. He doesn't look away or appear embarrassed. If anything, it's quite the opposite.
Girls are vying for his attention all around him, yet you receive all of it. Half the room away, hundreds of people create a sea between you both. Jungkook thinks he'd swim through it, no matter how choppy the water, if it meant he could have you right now.
You're the one who left, though. 
It's up to you to come back.
Part of you doesn't want to, but then you see another girl making advances, and Rae's horror over other girls trying it on with Taehyung seems to have rubbed off on you. The idea of it makes your skin crawl. You're drunk, and a little reactive, but Jungkook likes playing with fire.
As you work your way through the crowd towards him, he tries his best not to grin. Finds himself vindicated in his desire to be close to you, 'cause it seems like you want it, too.
Sliding in between Jungkook and the girl, you turn and apologise.
"Just need to borrow him for a second," you smile, clutching at his shirt and pulling him away from the booth before she even has a chance to protest.
With an ever-so-satisfied smirk, Jungkook shrugs towards the other girl, and lets you drag him wherever you want. He's putty in your hands, a little tipsy and desperately in need of attention from you. 
For the past week, he's played scenario over scenario over scenario in his head about this moment, and now that it's happening, he's glad he let you seek him out. Is so pleased that you actively want him just as much as he wants you.
In the middle of the crowd, you're hidden from prying eyes. It's too dark to notice any discerning features of the people around you, yet somehow, Jungkook seems like a vibrant golden light to you. Impossible to miss. Unable to ignore.
You wanna talk. Ask him about who the fuck he is. Explain that you didn't mean to leave so heartlessly.
Taehyung's set is so overwhelmingly loud, though. Can barely even hear yourself think.
As soon as he'd spotted Rae in the crowd, Taehyung had sent the bar coordinator to go and get her. She's sitting pretty up in the DJ booth, incredibly pleased with herself. Notices you and Jungkook almost immediately. Knows it'll be on Twitter in the next few hours, especially if that damn butterfly tattoo of yours is noticed.
Bunnies and butterflies have been trending for days.
Jungkook speaks, but you can't hear him.
"Huh?" You ask, getting on your tippy toes, but it's fruitless. Even as his hand drops to your waist to steady you and keep you in place, you can barely make out his words. "I can't hear you!"
He can't hear jack shit, either. Frowns. Looks around. Spots Yoongi by the booth and gestures towards the side of the room. When Yoongi nods back, it's Jungkook who drags you through the crowd, now. Just beyond the DJ booth is a little black door that Yoongi meets you by. Taps in the code. Nods in your direction.
"A pleasure," he says with a knowing smirk. Miraculously, you can hear him, but ultimately, it's because you're not in the direct line of the speakers now.
You don't get a chance to respond before Jungkook gets you into what can only described as a dark hole as quickly as he can. Romance, you think to yourself, but you also are very aware of the fact Jungkook doesn't let go of your hand, even when he's searching for the light switch. It takes him a second, but he manages to recall the approximate location quickly enough.
Dingy yellow light floods into the room. Small and boxy, it's a 3-in-1 storage room, bathroom, and dressing room for 'talent'. It's why Yoongi had the code, but you can't imagine anyone with any shred of self-respect actually using this place. The walls are the same grey tiles as the floor, and the light bulb hangs from a wire without a shade. The tap on the sink drips, and you're pretty sure there's a leak in the far corner by the mirror.
None of that matters, though. All you can focus on is the man in front of you. Though not soundproof, the room does offer a far more muted version of Taehyung's set. More importantly, it provides you with privacy.
It's been a week since you last saw him, face to face.
Though you have, admittedly, seen him what feels like a million times on low-quality streams from his bedroom.
Realistically, it's been about three times, but you think about it almost constantly.
"You left," is all he says, a little pout on his lips.
It's cute, you think, that he is so outwardly offended by such an act. You would have thought that a man of his position would have a habit of leaving, himself. Then again, you didn't know of his status when you left him in bed that morning.
"And you didn't die," you reply with a teasing smile, trying not to make it sound so severe. "You were fine without me."
"I'm not joking," he says, even if he can't help but smile at the recollection of how stupid the conversation before bed had been. "You left. It was rude."
"I had brunch plans," you tell him, reaching your hands out for his. He wants to resist. Fails. Lets you pull him closer. Incredibly close, in fact. So close that you begin to notice all sorts of things. His freckles. A small scar on his cheek. A tiny fleck of glitter on his skin, no doubt from one of the girls who had been desperate for his attention earlier. "You'd only had a few hours sleep. I didn't want to disturb you."
"Could have left a note," he says, still pouty but far quieter. You can smell the Jack on his breath. Have always hated the taste, but think you could grow to like it. "Your number. Something, at least."
"I could've," you admit, edging even closer. Closing the gap. Nudging your nose against his. But then you smile. Pull back. Tease, "And you could have warned me that I'd become a trending topic on Twitter."
Just like that, Jungkook's pout snaps into the prettiest smile. His face scrunches up, lines creasing on his nose. Beneath his closed eyes reside the sweetest little puffs. He's got the kind of face that is impossible not to like.
"Ah," he cringes.
"Yeah," you laugh at the stupidity of it all. What did he expect? That you wouldn't find out? "Ah."
"In my defence," he holds his hands up, eyes wide and innocent. "You called me Tokki. How was I to know you didn't know?"
"Oh, give over," you laugh, as he reaches for your hands once again. Pulls you closer. "You know I didn't know."
Truthfully, he does know this, but it was nice to be unknown for a little while. Nice to not second guess your intentions. Even now, knowing that you know, he feels like none of it matters. 
"Look," he begins, toying with the hem of your cropped shirt. Lets his fingertips graze your bare skin. Tries his best not to think about what you look like half-naked. Fails. "I only came out tonight 'cause I hoped I'd see you. I don't care about staying out till ass-o'clock, again."
"Think I've only just caught up on sleep," you hum, angling your chin up and giving him the perfect opportunity to make a move that goes beyond flirtatious touches.
"Exactly," he smiles, letting his hand squeeze the side of your waist. Pulls you closer. "And I've not drunk half as much tonight, but I think I could do with you making sure I don't die, again."
"Yeah?"
Nodding as he nudges his nose against yours, Jungkook is all smiles. Lets his lips line up against your pout.
"Yeah," he mumbles—then lets the word get lost in your lips.
Sinking into what it feels like to kiss you, Jungkook can't help but feel satisfaction. Has finally caught the damn butterfly he's been after all week. 
He's played a lot of games. Won a lot of battles.
And yet victory has never tasted so sweet.
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JUNGKOOK'S APARTMENT ITAEWON-DONG, YONGSAN-GU SATURDAY 02:07
You retrace your steps. Get a taxi to his place, 'cause there's no point pretending like he can't afford it. Not anymore.
You're not giggling like you were the first time you were in his elevator, but it's kind of impossible to do so when your back is to the wall and Jungkook's tongue is in your mouth.
Your hands roam his body—waist, ass. If you can squeeze it, you will. Just makes him deepen the kisses. If his large hands weren't cupping your jaw, keeping you close, they'd be doing the exact same thing as yours.
The ding of the elevator pulls you apart just for a second, and then you're the one pulling him down to the corridor to his place.
He doesn't open the door. Just kisses you again. 
Finally understands what it means to get butterflies, 'cause he's got you, now, and he never wants to lose it.
Hooking his hands beneath your ass, he hoists you up. Gets your legs wrapped around him. Could go in, but where's the fun in that? There's a slight danger of getting caught. He knows the hallway security cameras will definitely pick this up. The threat that it could get leaked online, and the simple fact that he couldn't give a shit if it does, is kind of hot.
"I'm not fucking you out here," you tell him through a hushed giggle, when he rests his forehead against yours.
"Woah," he jokes. "Who said anything about fucking?"
"I can literally feel your boner, Jungkook."
"Touché."
He doesn't even attempt to downplay it. He puts you down. Gets you through the threshold of his apartment. Shoes off by the door, there's no need to be quiet. Yoongi and Taehyung are still out, and will be for hours. He could take his time if he really wanted.
But what he wants is you. Doesn't waste time. Gets you in his room. Kinda feels like you never left. Jungkook still wishes you hadn't, but doesn't mind the idea of you making it up to him now.
"So," you hum, trailing your fingertips across his desk. "This is where the magic happens?"
He smiles a little bashfully, head dropping for a moment before his eyes are on yours again. "Yeah. You could say that."
Now that you're back in his space, it's a little embarrassing just how many clues there were. A headset rests on the desk—black, robust, with his signature bunny ears secured on top—and a mic is hooked up by the monitor. The webcam doesn't look special, but the keyboard subtly glows in his darkened room. Violet, like the LEDs behind his screen.
A laptop covered in vinyl stickers is closed next to the set-up. He uses it when he's not streaming on his desktop. At least three of the stickers are of the Crescent Collective's logo.
Turning to fully face him, you rest your palms behind yourself and perch on the edge of the desk.
He gets a little kick out of seeing you so flippantly disregard the domain in which he dominates. Gives him a point to prove. Gets him closing the space between you, hands on your waist, dipping to your ass to leverage further back on his desk. Knows it's sturdy, 'cause he built it himself, but has never tested out quite how strong it really is. Thinks now's as good a time as any to find out.
Your legs wrap around his body with no thought, just the innate understanding that you want him in a way you're sure thousands of people have only dreamt of: in his room, on his desk, that damn 'Go Live' button just a few short clicks away.
Reaching beside you, there's a smirk on your lips as you retrieve his headset. Put it on him. Say, "The ears are cute, Tokki."
He rolls his eyes. Is fighting a smile, and currently losing. He's seen some lewd shit during his time on the internet and is well aware of the fanart that includes the ears and little else. Always found it kinda funny, before.
Now? He's so hard it almost hurts, and he thinks he could grow to like it.
As your arms drape over his shoulders, he takes them off. Puts them on you, instead. Adjusts the sizing. Gets them just right for you. Is attentive, like that. Pulls his head back a little, and then realises what a problem you're gonna be for him.
It's not so much the addition of animal ears that's getting him insatiable, but seeing you adorned with a crown that is so inherently his that does it.
Jungkook's no saint. He's had his fair share of one-nighters. A couple hours of fun never to be spoken of again. Since the group of them signed to their management agency, they've been repeatedly told how important it is to get NDA's signed. Something about it always feels so icky to Jungkook. Cruel, almost. Has only had a couple hook-ups since then, both with flings he's known for a good couple of years, with no fear of them spilling the beans on how prettily he whines when he cums.
You're the first new girl in a long time. He knows he should really pause things before you cut to the chase—but then your hand is trailing down his thick forearm, delicately stroking his rabbit moon with a curious smile. Decides he doesn't care.
"The ears are cute," he replies. Teasingly adds, "Nabi."
The position of your arms over his shoulders ensures the tattoos he'd traced the week before are fully displayed for him. As his eyes drop to your butterfly, you're curiously smitten by the way his lips move to press a kiss against it again.
"Suit me?"
"Mhmm," he hums, eyes flickering back up to yours. "Should also get you a pair of butterfly wings, or something."
"I'd make you wear them," you tell him with a cheeky glint in your eye. "Turn you into a butterfly, yourself. Your girlies in the chat would love that."
Jungkook knows without a shadow of a doubt he'd let you. Not for the girlies in the chat, but for you.
Ghosting his lips against yours, he's waiting for you to press down. Is letting you take the lead.
Your kisses are sweet. Tepid. Reserved.
You're feeling; his hands on your waist, the pressure of his lip rings, the presence of his nose.
And then he's feeling; your bare skin as his large hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt, the way your legs wrap around him, the vibration of a small groan against his lips.
The skirt you're in is bunched around your hips, and the positioning is just right for you to feel how hard he is against your underwear. It's a little undignified, you'll admit, but you're impatient, so you take control. Reposition his hand between your legs. Encourage him to take things further.
"Yeah?" He checks.
Nodding into a needy kiss, you mumble, "Please."
It might've been a while, but Jungkook's muscle memory is enviable. He's the best player on the team for that very reason.
As he hooks your underwear to the side, he's pleased to be greeted with indications of your arousal. Smirks into the kisses he's giving you, as his fingertips graze against your clit. Trails his lips to your neck. Wants to hear the way you gasp as he pushes his thick middle finger inside you.
"Fuck," you sigh at the welcome intrusion. Nod, as he curls his finger almost immediately. He's got a lot to thank those damn video games for, that's for sure.
Softly moaning, just how he hoped you would, there's an arch to your back as he picks up a pace. The need to perform, almost.
Head tipping back as Jungkook fucks another finger into you, you're unable to think too cognitively. Can only think about the way he feels. The smell of his hair as he presses kisses against your neck, and how prominent his collarbones are as your nails trail up his toned torso.
"Feels so good," you tell him. Move the hand of yours that's been resting on his shoulder to his hair. Tug on it a little. Elicit the prettiest of whines from him.
There's something to be said for making a man—especially one of such strength, stature, status—so weak. Gets you all giggly. Jungkook can feel the satisfaction ripple through your entire body, and it just makes him groan against your neck even more.
"You're so wet," he praises, pulling back to study your face as he plays with you. Lets his thumb stroke up against your clit ever so gently. Revels in the way you get a little shaky. Twitchy. With those damn bunny ears, you really are like a little rabbit. Jungkook finally understands why the fan artists choose to draw him in such a way. It is hot. "You're making me so fuckin' hard."
And then you're giggling again.
"Is it a joke to you, huh?" He smirks. Looks down at your pussy, all swollen and sopping wet for him, in the hazy violet light of his room. Knows that his throbbing cock is gonna stuff you so fuckin' full that laughing won't be an option. Is desperate for it. "How badly I want you is just a big joke to you, huh, bunny?"
The way he groups you in with his moniker is too damn hot.
"Dunno," you rasp, desperately trying to hold off the orgasm that's building inside you. "Fuck me and find out."
Reaching for the button of his trousers, you're quick as you wrestle his jeans down over his ass. Don't bother pushing them down entirely. Just enough to get his boxers exposed, and in turn, his thick cock. Hard and engorged, his desperation for you is evident. A small patch of precum seeps through the fabric of his boxers. He curses as your thumb strokes against it.
"Condom?" You ask, knowing you've got none on you.
"Hold that thought," he says, regretfully pulling away from you.
Watching on as he pushes down his jeans, and strips himself of his shirt, you're at a loss for words. You've seen him like this before, but it's so much hotter knowing that he's gonna be fucking himself into you as soon as he possibly can.
Jungkook could very easily lead you to his bed. Get you comfy. Reach to his bedside cabinet for a condom. Fuck you how he likes—doggy-style, minimal face-to-face contact—and be done with it all very quickly.
Instead, he says, "Stay here."
Doing as you're told, you watch on as he walks to the cabinet, and retrieves a condom. Admire his back, and his broad shoulders. The valley of his spine, and the hard work he's put into crafting his physique. Smirk to yourself as he dips into his boxers. Strokes himself. Once, twice. Tears the packet open with his teeth, just like you were always taught not to do, and rolls the latex down his thick shaft.
"What?" he smirks as he walks back, realising your eyes are transfixed on his cock.
You say nothing. Smile. Hold your hands out for Jungkook to take, just so you can pull him back even quicker.
Lips pressing into yours as he closes the gap, Jungkook is all smiles. Rubs the head of his cock against your pussy, gathering up your arousal all over his tip. Lines himself up with your entrance. Waits for you to give him the go-ahead.
Hand on his ass, you pull him closer. Edge the crown of his cock into you. Whimper. Beg. "Please."
Sinking into you with a laboured grunt, he's surprised with how much tighter you are around his cock than you were with his fingers. Wet and warm, there's an undeniable pleasure that sparks through his body as he gets familiar with the way you feel.
Slowly, his hips begin to pick up a pace. As his tongue strokes into your mouth, there's no dignity to the way he's taking you. The increased pace means heightened moans, and it's not just you—it's him, too.
"Shit, yeah," he grits. "So fuckin' tight, aren't you?"
Whining, you nod into his kisses. Are at his entire disposal as he grips your waist, proving exactly why Tokki is the perfect nickname for him.
As much as he likes the ears, he's a little worried that he might fuck you so hard they fall off. Doesn't wanna break them, and definitely doesn't wanna think about the story the boys would make up when they go live tomorrow to tease him—but also really wants to fuck you harder.
Which is funny, cause the way he tugs them off with such desperation and tosses them down, you'd be forgiven for thinking he couldn't care less about breaking them. Doesn't give you a chance to say anything, 'cause his big hands are cradling your face, bringing you in for desperate kisses once more.
There's a lewdness to the sounds you make together, but Jungkook knows that if he was an entirely different kind of streamer, you'd make bank together. Wonders about the way it would look on camera. Worries. Pauses.
"You good?" You check a little breathlessly as he reaches behind you, just to tug the wire to his webcam from the plus.
"Yeah," he nods, still fiddling around behind you. Smiles in the hedonistic haze as your lips find a new home on his neck. Strokes your hair gently, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. Quietly says, "Just making sure there's no way in hell I accidentally start streaming."
You hum, all purry and pliant. "People would pay good money to see it."
While he agrees, and has had the same thought process, he doesn't care. "You saying I should be charging you for this?"
"Oh, no," you say all very sweetly. "You should be paying me."
"I'll pay you with orgasms," he promises, knowing that it's a rare currency for one-night strands.
You smirk. Pat the top of his head. "Sure you will."
If there's one thing Jungkook loves, it's a challenge.
Pulling back, he turns you around. Gets you bent over his desk with zero opposition from you. Rubs himself against your soaked cunt, then asks, "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you smirk, and then settle into a sigh as he pushes into you. The feeling of fullness from Jungkook is one that's hard to compare. So thick, and fat, and heavy, his cock really is just as impressive as he is.
With one hand hooked at the crease of your thigh, the other holds the top of your shoulder. Gets you pushed down onto his cock as far as you possibly can be. There's a slight reflection in his streaming plaque beside the monitor, and you're pleased to see just how intensely focused he is on you, brows furrowed, pretty pink lips resting ajar. The silver of his lip rings and chain catch in the light, and you find you can't look at him for too long. He's too hot.
But then he's reaching down for your clit as he fucks into you. Has your legs shaking. The waves of a familiar sensation begin to lap against the shores of your pleasure.
"Fuck," you whine. "Feels good. Keep it like that."
Jungkook knows better than to ignore your requests. Does as he's told, the pressure of his fingers on your clit only deepening. Rubbing calculated circles against you, he knows just how to work you up. Gets you whining. Mewling. Moaning.
"Gonna cum, aren't you?" he smirks, as his own high builds.
"Fuck—"
"C'mon," he husks, feeling your walls tighten around him. He doesn't stop his relentless chase. Will win your orgasms fair and square. Continues pounding into you. Pace fast, strokes deep, he's everything you could ever want and more—and then he's slowing. Keeping you plugged, nice and deep, but focusing on the way he's toying with your clit. "You know you wanna cream for me. All over my cock, pretty Nabi. C'mon—"
"I'm close," you all but whimper. "So—fuck. So close."
"Yeah, you are," he tells you—and then your legs are shaking, pussy tightly clamping around his cock, one hand tense against his desk while the other grabs at his wrist. Uncontrollable, is the way you whine for him. It's so needy—so desperate and pathetic—that it's almost a sob. Jungkook doesn't ease up. In fact, his hips gain a little pace again as your orgasm shatters around you both. He's breathless, but manages to choke out, "Flithy fuckin' cunt. Feels so fuckin' good. Fuck."
The frail limpness of your body as the orgasm smokes away is cute. Jungkook loves it. You're so weak for him. He fucks into you still, chasing his own high, and your whines only get louder. It's overwhelming, but you never want to lose the feeling.
It doesn't take much. Just a minute or so of your tight cunt, and Jungkook is pulling out. Even though he doesn't ask you to, you get to your knees as he tears the condom off.
"In my mouth," you beg, and who is he to reject such an offer?
Jerking himself to completion, Jungkook is all pretty and pathetic when he cums, too. Looks at you with eyes so starry you'd been forgiven for thinking he was a descendant of the constellations.
He milks the final few spurts of himself onto your wet tongue, and curses when you press dainty kisses to his tip. Stroking your tongue against him, you don't want to waste a drop. Look up at him and find that his eyes are resting shut from the pleasure of it all.
Silence surrounds you both, just your beating hearts and laboured breaths filling to the room. He helps you up. Holds you tight. Hugs you for a little while, then presses a kiss to the side of your head. "Thanks."
"My pleasure," you giggle - and then he's smiling, too. Feels vindicated by his irrational thoughts about you over the last few days. He pays no mind to the fact you're still technically dressed, and he's basically naked.
As he sorts himself out, you perch back up on his desk and languidly swing your legs. Enjoy the thought of memories plaguing him whenever he tried to play his little games over the next few days.
"You wanna grab a shower?" he offers. "Food, too? Dunno about you, but I'm fuckin' starving."
"Same," you nod, biting down on your bottom lip. "I'll go wash up, you sort food? Are places still open for delivery?"
Checking his phone for the time, Jungkook is surprised that it's closer to midnight than it is to his morning alarm. Only a handful of places will offer delivery at this time, but that's enough.
"Works for me," he says with a yawn, then opens what you had assumed was the closet door. Reveals an en-suite and knocks his head to the side. "Get your shower. Gimmie a shout if you need anything."
Tiles large and grey, it's the perfect counterpart to his bedroom. A little dark, but it's only because Jungkook hates using the big light. Always flicks the small light switches instead. There's a window overlooking the city, and even though you're only seven floors up, the hills of Yongsan-gu mean that he's got a view you could only dream of.
You're about to start the shower up when he calls through. "Is pizza good?"
"Pizza's good," you call back with a smile. Look yourself in the mirror and wonder how the fuck you ended up in the bathroom of arguably the most famous person you've ever met. Decide it's better not to question it.
The shower begins to cascade down, even if your sins are washed way, you know you won't be able to forget the feeling of Jungkook so easily.
Truth be told, you won't even try.
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YONSEI UNIVERSITY DORMS DAESIN-DONG, SEODAEMUN-GU SUNDAY 21:13
"L in the chat," booms the voice of Taehyung through your laptop speakers. His trademark grin rests on his face as he teases Jungkook.
You've only just opened the stream. Instantly, you focus on the prettily lopsided smirk of Jungkook's lips. You've learned it's an almost permanent fixture on his boyish face. Shaking his head, he's adjusting his headset. Making it a little looser so that it'll fit him properly.
No one is questioning it.
What they are questioning, is where the fuck that pretty purple bruise on his neck has come from.
"Cross-fit," Jungkook just shrugs, knowing that it's the colloquial term for suspicious bruises after some idol used the same excuse. Blatant horseshit. Jungkook doesn't care.
"I've never done cross-fit, but I know you're bullshitting," Taehyung snorts.
The chat seems to agree with him.
"Thought I was a virgin?" Jungkook states a little cheekily, making reference to Taehyung's usual banter. "How else would I get one?"
Taehyung knows better than the retort. Knows that Jungkook could very easily slip something about Rae into the conversation.
Virgin? You type through a message on a private discord chat with Jungkook. He'd set it up the day before. Has already sent you, like, a thousand messages. Is what can only be described as obsessed—but it's mutual. Could have fooled me.
As his eyes glance down to his laptop screen, he fails to hide his smile. Had opened your chat on there, cause he didn't wanna accidentally broadcast the messages onto his stream. Despite this, he doesn't care that there are nearly 10,000 people in his stream merely minutes into it. Is far more interested in his chat thread with you. Replies immediately.
Stop distracting meI'm working</3
Giggling as the message pings through to you, there's a giddy quality to the way Jungkook makes you feel.
He'd spent the day in bed with you after your night together. Had wanted you to stay when he started streaming that evening. Said he'd only be an hour or so, and was incredibly pouty when you did leave.
It had just been him on last night's stream—headset off 'cause he didn't wanna adjust it back yet, hoodie on to hide his neck. The other boys were nursing hangovers, so he could do what he liked.
What he did do had you incredibly curious. Was just chatting. Talking to the comment section. Sleepily reeling off facts he'd recently learned about butterflies. Debating over their lifespan.
You're not naive to the fact that Jungkook does this streaming stuff as a profession, and are aware that the more people talking about his stream on other platforms, the more viewers he'll get.
Made sense for him to add fuel to the butterfly-related fire by talking about them.
Had sent you a message earlier that evening to ask what kind of butterfly you had on your skin.
A Monarch, you'd told him.
"See, the thing is," Jungkook had rambled to his viewers a little later on. "Most butterflies have super short lifespans—Monarch's included."
Eyes all starry, lights in his bedroom purple as per usual, he'd looked cosy. You wished you'd have stayed.
"But there's a specific kind. Migrating Monarchs. They're the last of their generation—the final butterflies of the year," he marvelled at the magic of it all.
His facts were a little hazy, but he knew enough. Had been down a you-shaped rabbit hole all afternoon.
"And they migrate, right? Move away from home—somewhere warmer—and then it just extends their lifespan. 180 days. Not 30. That's six months. Six months. It's a long time. It's not fleeting. Not in the slightest."
It's also, curiously, exactly how long you're scheduled to stay in Korea for.
"I dunno," Jungkook had just sighed, a little forlorn, trying to make sense of his thoughts.
He bit down on his bottom lip, stroking his thumb against the hard plastic ears of his headset, then focused on the camera again. Wondered if you were watching. 
He simply shrugged. Said, "Counts for something, though, right?"
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luimagines · 7 months
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I come back from the grave of pain to ask you about something from my blog because I want your ideas. First: What are your thoughts on Pop Idol Reader? Second: out of the songs on your link playlists which gives off their vibe? Just for funzies dont think to hard about it :D Love uuuuuuuuuuu
Hmmmm.... I see. I see.
For funzies, huh?
Well first off- Anything and everything ABBA and you can take that from my cold dead hands.
Afterwards, I think that there's a lot of wiggle room with this character, but I'm sure if this person is just a performer or if they're trapped in a living musical so they're forced to sign at random intervals of the day. I missed a lot of context when they first came to fruition.
But I digress.
Either way- it's fun. XD
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246sn · 2 years
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runaway bride ( ✶ ) chapter thirteen : everyone knows it’s us
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〈 masterlist | next 〉
⸝⸝ NOTE ‎𐪆 STOP YN RN IS GIVING WONYOUNG WHEN YUJIN WAS ASKING HER ABT YN A FEW CHAPTERS BACK 😭✋ gorgeous gorgeous girls forget about the names of the girls associated with sunghoon i guess 😁❤️ (ps. jay without typos is a slay he’s rly giving detective)
⸝⸝ SYNOPSIS ‎𐪆 right when you thought you could run away from your past life as a figure skater by being an idol, you meet the sole person who made you want to leave that life behind in the first place. ₊˚✸ ༘
⸝⸝ TAGLIST ‎𐪆 [status : open for taglist 3] @ja4hyvn @soobin-chois @aria-grace-scott @darrensos @c9tnoos @satorinnie @one16core @adnachiel97 @hrjchive @lqvwon @yjwnoot @jakahbot @softpia @chaeflms @d3ads0u1 @i-dubu @nshrkilvbt @ddeonu-s2 @yizhoutv @enhacolor @shynypeacekitten @solitxre @missmadwoman @youngbloodslut @wony6ung @mymomsdisappointment @hrtsforenha @miminyuu @chirokookie @hikruyo @tobiosbbyghorl @dxlicateee @jungwonswifex @mina-yoo334 @kingkaithekiwi @ferxanda @pshwyfie @magssu @bigtoewinwin @nyujjan @jaerisdiction @myluckycat @roseannepwwark @sd211 @cparqx @iz-hoonz @keii-1125 @ohsyanfei @certainyouthpeanut @yunkifoldr @lynnielvsu @itsjynop
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yyunari · 2 years
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%% ELEVEN - @/hooooonie hi 🥰🥰🥰
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SYNOPSIS . many might recognize y/n as one of the most beloved and rounded 4th generation idols. being in aespa brought her a lot of popularity and made her really well known, especially for her looks. when y/n becomes a music bank mc along with enhypen’s sunghoon, what will happen when she meets her old high school crush from back in australia?
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previous - masterlist - next
a/n : 😵😵😵😵😵😵
permanent taglist : @muhwaa @yizhoutv @ja4hyvn @maiwon @koakyuu @carayat @one16core @enhacolor @acciomylove @soobin-chois @moaengenesworld @en-boyz @msxflower @ohmy-fandoms @dinosdance
taglist : @lunaflvms @theskzvibe @jakelux @nshrkilvbt @rutowonz @certainyouthpeanut @chirokookie @miminyuu @itsjynop @qtsoob @oharella @ahnneyong @ineedcoffeeandtherapy @catecita @myluckycat @moon-lys @yunki4evr @i2gyus @wonyoluvie @diestheticu @c9tnoos @suneenhypen @sunny-nyu @y3jiishot @odxrilove @arizejkt19 @90sni-ki @chaseyui @yangrdn
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majorblinks · 5 months
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DOWNRIGHT ICONIC (aespa karina)
(smut, male reader, screenwriter you, stranger karina, public sex, rough sex [choking/slapping/biting/spanking/hair-pulling etc], oral, anal, facefucking, titfucking, facial, bondage, degradation, name-calling, other weird stuff, 26k words, it's been 1 million years..., BUT WE'RE SO BACK BABY <3)
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Hey, turns out the critics really are onto something:
You’re going to win an Oscar for this.
You aren’t surprised when the nominations are announced. It’s all anyone’s been talking about. You’re this up-and-coming screenwriter, this newly-minted visionary, and - cue the applause - you’ve just made the movie of the year. Clips go viral everywhere; the reviews are calling it extraordinary. They all want to know how you - a relative nobody - managed to pull it off. What’s your secret? What’s your inspiration? Where’d you get this billion-dollar box office idea? 
And here’s one version of the truth:
“Well,” you’re quoted saying in every single interview: “honestly, it’s about a girl.”
Everyone eats this up, of course. It’s so fucking romantic.
You’ll tell an abridged version of this story for the rest of your life. A blip in time in early January - a certified slow-motion movie moment. You’ll say things like she was the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. You’ll say things like, I know it sounds lame, but that’s how it went. She took my breath away. She fascinated me. I saw her and I don’t think my life has ever been the same. 
You’ll never once say her name. 
“It’s weird, actually,” you’ll say in an interview after the news of the nominations drops. “Making this movie about her. She’ll last forever there, you know? She’ll always exist in this film, in this one moment in time. She’s in all of it, basically - every scene, every line. It’s all her.”
“You make it sound like she’s dead,” the interviewer will say, all open-mouthed melodrama.
You’ll laugh. “Oh, God, no,” you’ll say. “She’s alive and well.” As if it hasn’t been years since you last saw her face, watching you from down the corridor, looking lost and torn apart and very, very small. “She’s okay. I mean - I think - yeah, she’s okay.”
As if you’d know. 
Because here’s another version of the truth:
You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’re going to stand up on that stage and thank your family and your friends. You’re going to stare at all those faces until they swim together into one golden, glittering blur, and then all you’ll see is her - her dark eyes, her glossy hair, her wrist in your grip, her throat between your fingers - her in your sheets, her smiling in your doorway, her shivering in your shower, her sobbing into her hands, her bleeding in your bed, her walking away. Her, her, her. Immortalized forever in this perfect thing you made, winning awards off the reconstruction of a memory. Art imitating life; reality warped into something magnificent, and beautiful, and better. 
And the only thing you’ll feel like doing is throwing up. 
Sure, you’ll bask for decades in the thrill of it: the fame, the fortune, the glory; the adoration, the worship, the attention; the eternal, endless love. You’ll be able to look back on your life when you’re decrepit on your deathbed and know that you - brilliant you, utterly superior you - were divinely blessed with earth-shattering success, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you. You made your mark. You meant something. You were the best, for fuck’s sake, and you have the accolades to prove it - you really, really were. 
So here’s the full truth - the final bottom line:
You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’ll live the kind of life people beg God for. You’ll get everything you ever wanted. 
It won’t be worth it at all. 
-
First, though, there’s this. 
-
Disturbingly enough, you’re in the romance section of a bookstore when everything starts. 
This is really not your genre - that’s the funniest part. Historically, you’re bored to death by the cartoonish pastel covers; you don’t get your kicks from seeing the same delightfully quirky heroines fall for brooding bad boys, or whatever the fuck goes on in those books. You have your standards. You prefer your art a little gritty, a little fucked up, a little more interesting - the kind of thing that can leave you shellshocked in a movie theater, overcome with the sort of full-body, lightning-struck epiphany only truly good work can manage. It’s not a judgment call - you’re not trying to be pretentious. It’s just that you prefer something with some fucking bite.
The second funniest part is this: 
You’re pressed against the shelves, surrounded by the cutest, chastest love stories ever told-
“Are you serious?” 
-and Karina’s on her knees, about to take your cock down her throat. 
Maybe this is what your contemporaries call cinematic irony.
That’s gotta be the only phrase for it, really. The scene itself dripping with classless, crude, erotic filth - the way she ducks her chin to spit on her hand, the slow pump of her fist around you, the rough hum in her mouth at how achingly hard you are - nasty and irredeemable, too fast and too loud. The gross lack of subtlety in her sex appeal: all pale thighs and porn-star tits, the wet pink flash of tongue. Seductive in a way that screams at you. It’d be so easy to write this off as some deliberately controversial opening scene, gory shock value, horror-film suspense - starring you and the slut you’re about to ravage and ruin and potentially leave for dead. 
“Baby - are you sure?” 
It’d be so easy, if Karina didn’t look like an angel incarnate.
“I mean, you-” You’re stammering. You’ve got both hands in her hair, fingers sliding through the glossy black in petting, soothing motions - your clumsy attempt at reassurance. “You don’t have to, if you don’t - we’re in public - I’m not expecting you to - I don’t need it-” 
Karina’s fine, sculpted eyebrows twitch upwards. Her lips are a twist of scarlet, distinct and amused. She doesn’t quite smirk, doesn’t give a voice to the sarcasm, but the sentiment is the same - yeah, right. 
And then she lowers her mouth to lick. 
“Jesus fucking Christ-” 
Scratch that, then. This is the funniest part. The most inhumanly beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, debasing herself in public like some sort of desperate common whore - come on, bring in the laugh track. 
Not that anyone’s laughing now. 
You’re no poet - they’re a few sections over, Plath and Yeats and Dickinson - but Karina’s the kind of thing that makes you understand the motivation completely: only capable of being captured in metaphor, without context, painstakingly interpreted hundreds of years from now by people who will never get this right. All carved-out cheekbones, fluttering lashes; tight fuckable body clad in a little low-cut dress, feet tucked neatly behind her like she’s simulating worship. Dirty and religiously devoted in how she stretches her full glossed lips around your cock and lets your grip tangle in her hair and- 
“Karina,” you get out, but her only response is to blink sweetly up at you and suck. 
Well, who gives a shit about the poets, anyway? You doubt any of them ever got to fuck a mouth like this. 
There’s an unfamiliar caution to the rut of your hips, a wincing fascination every time she gags - and she gags loud, choking and heaving, saliva dripping slick around you and down her chin - that seems to both entertain and confuse Karina. A skeptical crease in her forehead, saying everything she can’t: you don’t wanna fuck me up? Ruin me? Cloudy spit falling in strands to her tits, seeping into the crimson fabric of her dress; she’s wearing a worn black sweatshirt that’s slipping off one shoulder, exposing the clean line of her collarbone. The hollow of her cheeks, the obscene painful sound of your cock clogging her throat - it’s subtext, explicit suggestion. A preternatural understanding. I know what this is. I know what you want from me. 
Which - she couldn’t possibly. 
“Baby.” You sound so wretched that it’s humiliating. Karina’s sharply lined eyes seem to flash with humor, smug and lazily self-satisfied. “You’re gonna make me fucking cum.” 
The thick, sloppy, choked noise she makes is the closest she’s gonna get to a laugh. 
Oh, sure, whatever, it’s not like you’re not thinking about it: digging your fingertips into her scalp and really fucking her face, relishing in the way those eyes would go wide and glassy with unshed tears; refusing to let her have control, to let her lick and lap and breathe. You’re scripting it in your head already. You’d strip her bare and make her sob. You’d wreck her throat and cum all over her face and force her to walk out like that: coated in the sticky, filthy evidence of everything you’ve made her - look at this, you’d say, look at what I have. Look at what I did - all this, all me. 
“God.” Your thumb braces against Karina’s temple, like the gentle stroke of a brush, like you’re painting her right into existence. “You’re just-” A harsh gag; a fall of dirty, drooling spit. “You’re really enjoying this, huh? Getting on your knees in public for a fucking stranger?” 
That’s why the fantasy of fucking her into brutal submission is actually so understandable. You don’t know her. You don’t owe her shit. You could destroy her and it’s not like she could do anything to fight back - not when she’s already below you, looking up. When she asked for this. 
Except-
“Karina.” You can’t stop saying her name. “You’re - fucking perfect.” 
And it’s true.
So you cum. 
Karina swallows it all with the same amount of sultry grace she seems to do everything - how she laughs and walks and talks and takes your cock like a fucking professional - languishing in the practiced bob of her throat, the preening flicker of her eyelids, her face shiny and pale. It tugs the same feeling out of you as a flawless shot in a film, a well-timed bit of dialogue: watching an expert at work, pulling out all their stops. One hand through her hair. Her nails the same rich color as her mouth and her dress. Nasty, slutty, impressive attention to detail - Christ, get this girl in front of a camera, get the moon to be her limelight - you’re breathless, you’re enthralled, you’re so fucking far gone. 
Then: the sticky retreating glide of her pouty mouth, lipstick smeared badly down her chin, stark and arresting as blood. 
“In my experience,” Karina says, finally, “being perfect’s never gotten me anywhere good.” 
She pulls the sleeve of her sweatshirt up and wipes her face with her wrist. 
“You’re unbelievable,” you say, dizzy.
“Thank you,” Karina says, sweet like she means it, and sits back on her heels. 
You can’t help yourself; you’re petting back her hair again, cupping her face softly in your hand, caught on the dark glint of her irises. Angel was an understatement. She looks more than that - looks like something holy and all-powerful, something omniscient and blindingly beautiful, something who knows exactly what you need and knows exactly how to follow through. Something worthy of mythology. Something like a god.
And any sort of rough, ruthless, fucked-up fantasy - it’s never going to happen. 
You just can’t ruin a girl like her. 
“So?” Karina’s voice is a smoky bombshell lilt, like she’s just stepped out of some film noir from the 1950s. Hands folded primly in her lap, fingers interlocked like a lady. She could be a pop culture icon, an eternal sex symbol - a Marilyn, a Bond girl, a timeless universal beauty. “What now?” 
You think your brain actually short-circuits. “Sorry?” 
Head tilted, lids dropped low. Smirk still sharp and scarlet. “Are you gonna take me home?” 
You open your mouth to respond, but then a customer walks by the aisle. 
You’re a panicked flurry of motion - zipping up your pants, turning away, frantically patting down your clothes - but Karina just stays kneeling on the floor, little chin on an incline, utterly incriminating. It doesn’t matter. The customer passes you by. The world returns to the way it should be: just the two of you.
“Karina,” you say, flabbergasted by her composure. 
Karina’s lips quirk. “What?” 
You shake your head and offer your hand to help her up, but Karina laughs instead - actually laughs. It’s peculiar, beautiful: raspy like a chronic chainsmoker, as though there’s something foreign she’s trying to dislodge. The raw, gravelly aftermath of a skinned knee, a grisly scrape over skin. 
“Wow,” she says, and stands all on her own, tugs the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her fingers. “That’s a yes to taking me home, then?” 
“What are you doing?” You’re laughing too - you can’t help it - reaching for Karina’s tiny waist to pull her in. “What are you - what do you want?” 
When Karina smiles, it seems to set her eyes aflame. Bright and dancing, lashes like a shroud of smoke. “What do you mean?” 
“You just met me.” It sounds feeble, somehow: a thin, useless excuse. Nothing against the way her body slots between your hands, a smooth effortless fit; nothing compared to how she kisses you between sentences, so quick and easy it already feels like a habit. “You don’t - you don’t know me.” 
Karina’s mouth puckers, coy. “No?” 
“No,” you shoot back, grinning, but it doesn’t sound convincing at all. “Come on, baby, seriously. What do you want?” 
There’s gotta be some motive, you’re thinking. There’s gotta be a reason. Karina is so still, so soft and pliant under your hands, all the carved porcelain perfection of a marble sculpture but with none of the cold stiffness. Spine curving under your fingertips, jaw tilting into your touch. 
A complete stranger, maybe - but every part of her body is begging to be known. 
“Don’t you get it?” Karina says. “I want whatever you want.” 
It’s so simple and earnest it takes your breath away. 
“I - Jesus.” You’re biting on the inside of your cheek, drinking her in. “What if I told you I don’t know what I want?”
Another rasp of a laugh, sound like the serrated edge of a blade. “I’d say fine, okay.” Karina’s voice is low, conspiratorial. “But I’d think you’re lying.” 
And here’s the thing you know for sure:
The very second you saw Karina you swear you saw the next hundred pages of a manuscript unfurling in front of you, lines and themes and gorgeous dark-eyed heroines, tragically beautiful endings and stunning cinematography - infinite narratives in the glossy sweep of her hair, in the seductive stretch of her legs, in the way she looked at you in a crowded room and smiled a lovely, secret smile and told you she’d follow you anywhere. She’s worth making art about. She’s worth devoting lifetimes to. The most honest thing you could say to her right now is baby, I’m writing a movie about this one day, and I think you’re really gonna like it.
Karina couldn’t possibly know any of this, but it still feels like she does - impractical knowledge in how she loops one arm around your neck and kisses you again, no hesitation. Like she actually knows you. 
“I want to fuck you,” you murmur against her mouth, because it’s the next most honest thing. “Is that enough for you?”
You’re a screenwriter. You know your horror movies. A small part of you recognizes that this is precisely how they start: fanged vampires, wicked succubi, femme fatales out for blood. Karina’s so gorgeous she can’t be human - teeth so sharp there’s no way her intentions are pure.
“Sure,” Karina says, smirk glimmering like starlight. “Then I want that, too.” 
It’s a murder plot waiting to happen. 
You take her home anyway. 
-
(Oh, and about your Oscar-winning script-
In theory, this is how it begins.
It’s classic. There’s a stranger and there’s a beautiful girl and they’re both sitting at a bar, talking for the very first time. The girl has a rose tucked behind her ear; it matches the crimson color of her lipstick perfectly. The stranger had asked her what the deal with it was, but she’d said something vague and nonsensical about it being a gift, so now they’re talking about normal, average things. Jobs, names, flirtatious pickup lines. It’s obvious because it’s meant to be, like a set-up to some predictable porn - everyone watching knows they’re going to fuck. 
She keeps getting closer to him. At one point he thinks she’s going in for a kiss.
Instead, all she does is pluck the rose from behind her ear, and hand it to him. 
It’s okay, she says. No thorns. 
He stares at the rich furled petals and the whittled-down stem. 
Thanks, he says, amused, charmed. He thinks there’s something odd about her. He likes it, though; if she were as beautiful as she is - which is very beautiful, exquisitely fucking beautiful - and she behaved like most people do, he’d find her terribly boring. 
He takes it from her. Turns over the rose in his hands absentmindedly as she keeps talking. She’s got all this hair: wild and glossy black, pouring over her thin shoulders, her ribs, her tiny waist. After a moment he feels the sharp prick of a thorn against his fingertip and releases the rose in surprise. 
You said there weren’t thorns, he tells her, laughing. Ow. 
Whoops, she says. Then: Did it get me too? 
She turns her head, pulls her hair out of the way. There’s a scarlet bead of blood trickling down the side of her perfect pale neck. He can’t quite tell where the point of entry was, where the thorn had dug in and broken skin. It’s bleeding a bit too heavily. Covering its tracks. 
She swivels, slightly. She sees the look on his face. Is it bad? she asks.
No, he says, though he can’t really tell. But - couldn’t you feel it, though? The thorn? 
The girl presses her hand to the side of her throat. It comes back bloodstained, a neat smear of red along the lifeline of her palm. 
No, she echoes, though this can’t possibly be true. Hey, you wanna get out of here or something? 
Alright, he says, smiling. They both stand. They leave the rose where it is. Let’s go. 
He cups her cheek instead of her neck when he kisses her for the first time, so he doesn’t have her blood on his hands.
It starts simple like that.) 
-
Karina’s so out of place in your apartment that it’s almost laughable - or it would be, if you were capable of thinking about anything but her mouth and her hands and her tits crushed up against your chest as you pin her to the doorframe. She keeps making these little sounds into your mouth: low and throaty, almost agonized. You swallow all her moans off her lips - oh, baby, you’re okay - and you only kiss her harder. She doesn’t belong, among your carpet worn-down from pacing and your laptop still open and idling and the mess of incoherent colorful post-it notes pasted to your fridge. She doesn’t fit here. Here kissing your mouth, here in your arms, here on fucking earth with the rest of you heathens-
“You wanna fuck me so bad,” murmurs Karina, chin on an incline, staring up at you, “then do it already.” 
She doesn’t squirm or fidget; she doesn’t get needy or start begging. She stays pinned down by your body, lips parted, and stands completely still. 
It’s like she’s telling you to make your move. Waiting for something inevitable. 
“What happened to patience?” you say, anyway. 
Karina’s mouth curls. She palms your cock through your pants. “What the fuck is that?”
You try to laugh, breathless and turned on, but all she does is kiss you again.
You’re a creative - you’re ready to attribute meaning to every movement - but there’s nothing so profound about it when you get Karina on your bed, all that thick black hair fanned out on your sheets, her hands grasping to get your shirt off - off, she murmurs, off. Even that comes out measured. She never shakes. She’s so sure. You kiss her everywhere you can reach, her face and her neck and her collarbone and her tits, drunk on the soft, humming sounds she makes when you do. You’re so fucking gorgeous, you can’t stop saying, and Karina keeps laughing that same raspy laugh, like it’s the most hilarious thing she’s ever heard. 
“You told me you already know that, right?” You’ve got her face cupped in one of your hands and your other one at the neckline of her scarlet dress. “So what’s so funny?” 
“Everything.” Her teeth glint the way fangs would, a deliberate trick of the light. She’d be villainous if she weren’t so content to be trapped underneath you. “All of it.” She presses her palm to the side of your neck. “You’re too nice.” 
“Fuck.” Your thumb accidentally digs too hard into her cheek. She doesn’t wince, but you feel it - the stomach-turning thrill, the possibility of leaving a bruise. Your hand drops low - lower, down her throat and her tits and her flat midriff - and slips between her thighs, up her dress. It feels safer, somehow. “How do you manage to make the word nice sound like an insult?” 
“It’s not,” she says, simply, and spreads her legs. 
And it must not be - because Karina’s so wet. 
She makes another low velvety sound when you first touch her, seems to melt into the stretch of your finger in her cunt - just one finger, and her back arches faintly, prettily, hips lifting to take more. “Jesus,” you mutter, but Karina’s not looking at you: her eyes are shut tight, lashes fluttering black, tits heaving in her dress with each draw of breath. You’ve fucked girls who’ve seemed unsure of themselves - embarrassed by their own wantonness, how wet they are, how bad they want it - but all Karina does is wrap her hand around your wrist and tug, once: a clear soundless plea for more.
For a second you’re actually, positively certain that you’ve lost it. 
It’s abject fantasy. It can’t be real. You in your apartment with the dream girl - the personal Aphrodite - the muse; God, if anyone was ever made to be a fucking muse, it’s her - underneath you with her ridiculous tits and her tight little pussy, face like a Hollywood dream. Ludicrous. Impossible. Bucking as she tries to fuck herself deeper on your fingers, all the way to the knuckle - slowing down only to say you wanna fuck my cunt open with your big fat cock or what? 
“I,” you try to say, strangled - her mouth’s so fucking filthy. “I was - I mean - we could take it slow-”
“How romantic,” says Karina - and this, too, sounds like a heinous insult coming from her - but she drags your wrist to her lips and sucks her own slick off your hand anyway. 
You choke on your next breath. “Karina-” 
She looks up at you, unflinching, tits half out of her dress and cunt dripping down her thighs. Lipstick worn-down, kissed-off. All over your mouth, or your throat, or your shirt. Mouth chapped from the cold and stained marvelously pink. There’s something in the way her smile forms slight and crooked every time you say her name, as if there’s some private joke you’re not in on. 
“You’re such a gentleman,” Karina purrs, all syrupy-sweet condescension. Then: “You really don’t have to be.” 
She licks the pad of your finger. She’s so completely shameless. You feel monstrous on top of her, in this sick, superior way, like she’s just too small to be so sopping wet and slutty and fuckable - too beautiful to be anything but treated just right. 
“If you want me to fuck you like a whore, baby,” you tell her, half-joking, “then just say that.” 
It’s a mistake the moment it leaves your mouth - a line crossed. Because all Karina does is cock her head, your wrist gripped delicately in her hand, her legs parted underneath you, and stares. Almost droll, bemused. Like you’re so goddamn predictable.  
“Didn’t you hear me?” That perfect face sears right through you. You’d nearly fucked that face. Not quite. Not yet. “I want whatever you want.” 
She’s even tinier than you originally thought she was. You only realize this now, tracing her stomach under your fingertips, feeling the sharp relief of each rib straining beneath her skin. You don’t know it until you touch her, but you can span the width of her thigh under one hand. It sends a strange shiver through you: mapping every jut of bone, every startling edge. She’s tiny. Breakable, practically. Men meaner than you have probably thrown her around, fucked her up against walls, used her like a toy. 
“So,” says Karina. “What do you want?” 
Your fist clenches tight in her grasp, right in front of her face, knuckles going horrifically white.
Like you - like you’re going to-
An accident. A primal sort of gesture, like you’re less than human, turned under her touch into some feral hot-blooded animal who can’t control itself: carnivorous, predatory. You stare at your own hand and then the sharp scythelike curve of her mouth and feel revolted embarrassment crawl straight up your spine. 
It’s abhorrent. 
It also doesn’t even seem to matter.
Karina doesn’t go wide-eyed and nervous; she doesn’t look at your wound fist like she’s scared of what it could do to her. She clicks her tongue, once. Like this, too, is something she already saw coming.
“I thought so,” she says, anyway. Maybe this is it, what does it for her; looking the devil full in the face and begging to be burned. “Then do it.” 
“I can’t do that to you,” you mutter, but you tug her dress up, and you fuck her anyway. 
-
She’s a stranger. This is the point of fucking strangers. To do things to them that you’d never do to anyone else - to take out your worst impulses and tell your best lies and know that none of it matters, in the end. Because they’re nobody, and because you’ll never see them again. 
But you just can’t. 
She’s too indulgent and stunning and soft, with her low moans and the addicting drenched heat of her cunt, hand gentle and careful on the nape of your neck so she can keep pulling you into a kiss. She’s made up of curves, delicate edges - those hips and those tits you can’t keep your hands off of and her lips in a dreamy smile - and you find yourself stroking her hair back from her face so you can drink it all in: the blush in her cheeks, the almost serene way she lets her eyes slip shut and her mouth drop open, slack and enticingly wet. So good, baby, you keep telling her, because she is, her entire body warm and wanting and so easily fucked open, little pussy swallowing your cock right up. She doesn’t fidget or plead. She’s so sweet, such a perfect fit, humming into your mouth as your cock eases her open; so wet you can hear it, the sloppy squelch of her cunt when you bottom out. Your voice comes out coaxing. You like that? That feel good? Taking my cock so nicely, huh?
“Mmm,” Karina breathes, in an exhilarating moan, right into your mouth, against your tongue. “Mm, mm-”
She never quite manages full sentences. Never finds it in herself to make any more obscene demands. Just gets all small and soaking underneath you, licks messily at your bottom lip, and lets you do all the talking - lets you draw a careful hand through her hair and drop your other one between her thighs, clenches tight around your cock when you rub at her clit, keens low in her throat and listens. To the good girl, to the I got you, baby, to the that’s it, there you go, this is what you wanted - I know, honey, I know, you just needed to get this cunt fucked right, you just needed to cum real bad. I know what this is. I know what you need. 
“Fuck.” She’s flushed pink to her chest, delightfully ineloquent. “Yes-” 
Well - good thing you’re decent with your words, when it counts. Let Karina blush and drool and slick up your cock with every stroke. That’ll work just fine with you.
It’s the kind of juxtaposition you’d really lean into - the kind of thing you’d write just to get so self-indulgent with, a personalized note to the director, a wink and a nudge to every audience member. Look at that. Look at her eyes like something straight out of poetry. Look at her body like a pornographic fantasy. Look at how she gets so tamed and docile and compliant when she gets her tiny pussy stuffed full, creaming all over that cock, huge tits bouncing - look, that’s art, isn’t it? What else would you call it? What else could it be?
“You gonna cum, baby?” She’s so fragile underneath you. Color staining her cheeks apple-red; lips swollen and begging to be kissed. Fictive little fairy tale. “You gonna cum for me?”
“Yeah.” It’s breathy and barely-there. Her chin trembles, jerks in a weak nod. “I’m - I - fuck-” 
See: you just can’t rough her up. It’d be blasphemous. Sacrilege. Taking one single look at the stained-glass windows of a church and tearing it all to the ground.
Still, you’re mesmerized by how utterly vulnerable she looks: the glossy shine to her irises; the way she inhales all slow and shaky, body slipping from some sort of precipice. Not just like she’s near-tears, but like she’s stunned - struck dumb from a violent blow, mouth wide open in the aftermath. And it’s just sex - and, fuck, you’ve said it, you see things the way every obsessive artist does; sex is never just sex. Every one thing means something more. A metaphor. An allegory. You get nasty and debauched and dirty because you know exactly what you can spin it into. Put the entire scene in a silent film and everyone can swoon about the things you might be saying to her, this impossibly captivating stranger in your bed with her graceful name, her dizzying moans, her shuddering frame in her orgasm. Don’t you get it? you could be telling her, hand brushing gently over her sweat-damp hairline. Don’t you feel that? You’re a stranger to me, baby, but you don’t have to be. There’s a reason we met. There’s a meant-to-be here, somewhere. I’m not a believer, sweetheart, but you could make one out of me - I swear you could, I promise-
But that’s the reason why these things are best left to the imagination, anyway. 
A million scripted sweet nothings - and none of them manage to make it out of your mouth. 
“Karina.” Your hips jerk hard. You sound half-possessed. “So pretty, cumming all over my cock like that. Such a perfect little cunt, baby - so fucking good-”
Her eyes suddenly shut tight; her body arcs into your touch, lips parted in a silent gasp. And for a second it seems like such a snapshot of innocence, like she’s brand-new to getting fucked quick and rough and dirty - though you know this can’t possibly be the truth, not with the way she flirts and whines and drips for more like she’s made for it - but she’s trembling under your fingertips, and you can dream. She’s your beautiful stranger, your pristine muse; you can pretend she’s whatever the fuck you want. 
“God,” Karina murmurs, so soft and weak it makes your head spin. 
Before you know what you’re doing - before you can even think twice about it - you’re pulling out, and cumming all over her stomach. 
You can’t help it. You shouldn’t have had that thought about innocence. Jesus. This is what you mean, about you and your own painful humanity; you’ve got all the same vile desires. When you see a pure thing - all that porcelain skin, all that thick glossy black hair, all those gleaming white teeth in her open mouth - your very first instinct is to fuck it up bad.
You’d do worse, if you were worse - you’d make a real fucking disaster out of her. 
“Baby,” you say, breathlessly. “Are you…”
And Karina, then, does something truly evil: 
Sighs luxuriously, stretches her arms above her head, eases those gorgeous eyes open, and smiles. 
As if she’s reveling in it. The scent of sex - the defiled tautness of her tummy - the way you’re not sure where her little red dress or her shoes or her panties are, how her cunt’s dripping wet onto your sheets, her hair a glorious mess. Grinning in the face of utter filth. 
“You,” you exhale, running your palm down her side. “You’re so…” 
Karina’s mouth pulls up at a corner, like she’s daring you to finish the sentence, but you never do. 
You can’t stop staring at the stretch of cum-covered skin before you. Coating her belly, pooling into her navel. You realize with a start that there’s a new bruise blooming on her chest, a vicious sort of bite mark. You can’t remember when you did that. You’d been kissing her - of course you kissed her - her mouth and her neck and her tits, but you’d been so gentle, sucking light and soothing her skin with your tongue after-
“You didn’t want to cum inside me?” Karina asks, hoarsely. 
You blink so hard your vision blurs. “What?” 
“Right.” Her eyeshadow’s smudged dark underneath her eyes, making her look deliciously used up. “You did want to cum inside me.” 
“Karina,” you warn - or, at least, you mean to make it sound like a warning - but her name comes out too faint. It’s horrific. Your hand traces her hipbone so reverently. You’re no match for her. 
Karina arches a brow in unhurried challenge, ghosts her hand across her tummy. Takes two fingers and drags them through the cum you spilled, pulls back with it clinging thickly to her skin. Drifts down, down, down. 
“Karina,” you try to say again, even more pathetic than last time. “Jesus-” 
But you saying her name holds no weight here; she’s made that more than obvious. Nothing to stop her as she smears her cum-slick fingers across her glistening pussy, gaze locked amusedly on your face, tracking your reaction. She’s still so fucking wet - she rubs your cum in circles across her clit - tossing her head back a little, chest heaving and falling, fingertips just barely dipping inside her cunt-
“I can’t.” Karina lifts her hand to pop her fingers in her mouth, sucks them clean. Pointedly flashes her too-sharp nails at you like she’s unsheathing claws. “If you want it, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”
“You,” you say, though your hand’s already pressing hard into her ribs, “are fucking cruel, baby.” 
“And you,” replies Karina, head tilting, “just want to see my cunt all filled up and leaking your cum.” 
Oh, she hasn’t been wrong about you all night. She certainly won’t start now. 
“What?” A sly, languid smirk tugs at her lips. “Afraid you’re gonna knock me up or something?” 
Your breath halts right in your lungs.
You’d been right about her too, it seems. Succubus. Vampire. She must be; she’s bloodthirsty. Tits gleaming with sweat, the scarlet stain of that bite mark you can’t remember leaving, cunt all dripping wet and desperately empty - body like a fatal fucking blow. 
Karina’s eyes glint. I want what you want, she’d said. 
With the way she spreads her legs, she’s gotta be ready to prove it.
So you never stood a chance. You give in and scoop up cum with one finger and sink it deep inside her aching cunt, feeling as she clenches down, as she takes it so well; like a good girl, you tell her, letting me do whatever I want with this needy little cunt; that’s my good girl. Karina lifts her hips - goes so still and so obedient - and lets you repeat it over and over again, fucking into her with your fingers until the plane of her stomach is bare and sticky and her cunt’s dribbling your cum onto your sheets. It’s completely nasty. It’s hot. It’s Karina craning her neck back and shutting her eyes as you bury three fingers inside of her and fill her with your cum, every part of her in utter surrender, entirely at your mercy, breathing out hard through her nose until your thumb rubs at her clit and she’s cumming again, all over your hand. She gets this look on her face, afterwards - exhausted, every line of her face gentle and lax - staring up at you like you’re the only person still left on this planet. Adoring, almost. As if you’re something out of another world. 
It’s an expression too sweet for a scene like this - and it’s exactly what men like you make art about. 
“There,” you say, soft and mesmerized, wiping your hand across her chest. “Satisfied?” 
Karina laughs her strange, gravelly, gorgeous laugh. 
“No,” she says, shamelessly. “But that’s not your fault.” 
Your fingers curl around the curve of her jaw. “No?”
She barely looks like she belongs in your bed - she must be something divine, lit from within, god-blessedly gorgeous. She’s a fucking fever dream: stunning eyes and the bob of her throat and her tits and her curves and all that hair. Stay, you think of telling her. Let me see what I can make of you. I don’t know you yet but I could, baby, I really could. 
“Nope.” Karina smiles, and somewhere, soliloquies are writing themselves. “I always want more.”
“Okay,” you say, mouth hovering over hers. “Then stay.” 
-
So she stays.
-
(An update on your script:
The stranger and the girl are back at his place. They’re sitting on his couch. Nobody has cleaned off her neck. He’s been too busy pawing at her: at her face, between her legs, at her tits in her tight dress. I need you, he’s been murmuring to her, and it feels like he really means it: like he’ll die if he doesn’t get her desperate and whining underneath him, his cock stretching her tight little cunt wide open. He doesn’t feel too bad about it. She’s a dirty slut. She’s said as much. She’s got her own needs, too. 
What happened to your window? she asks, suddenly.
He pulls back from her chest, his spit clinging shiny to her skin. 
She isn’t looking at him. He has the sudden, unnerving feeling that she hasn’t been looking at him the whole time. Not like she’s had her eyes closed in blinding, overwhelming pleasure - but like she’s deliberately been trying to look at anything else. 
But his hand falls between her thighs, and he realizes she’s already wet. 
A bird flew into it, probably, he says. That happens, sometimes. 
They’re talking about the stain on the once-clean glass of his window. The backdrop of the night sky behind means it’s barely visible, but the suggestion of it is enough. Implicit gore. Tiny little black feathers, caked in blood from the impact, dark and dried. It’ll be scrubbed off soon enough, he knows. It’ll be all gone eventually. 
Oh, she says. She doesn’t apologize for potentially killing the mood. She hasn’t, anyway, not really. She’s still wet and small underneath him, begging for it. Poor thing. 
Yeah, he says. 
She turns back to him. Her hair’s everywhere, all over the arm of his couch, wayward strands beneath his fingers. She’s clearly expecting something - to be kissed, to be fucked hard, to be called baby and angel and good girl. It doesn’t really matter either way. Those are the only things he can give her. 
He stares at the blood on her neck. 
Let me clean that off for you, actually, he says, and goes to the kitchen to get a washcloth.)
-
Much, much later:
“I admire you,” Karina says, all tucked up in your bed, underneath your sheets, half-buried into your side. Moonlight bleeds into the room. Her eyes gleam like galaxies. “For showing some self-control.” 
“What?” 
Karina’s hair pours over your pillowcase. She takes your hand and brings it close to her face, working your fingers into a tight fist. 
“Fucking bitch,” you mutter, and then regret it immediately. It lands too harshly, too strange and serious. “Sorry. I didn’t - that came out weird. I don’t think you’re a bitch.” 
Karina’s lips brush your knuckles. “Not the meanest thing I’ve been called.” Her voice twists with humor. She shouldn’t be so comfortable curled up with a man she doesn’t know in the middle of the night. You think of kissing her hard, of scraping her neck with your teeth, of warning her about self-preservation - sweetheart, you could tell her, this is how people end up dead. “Not the meanest thing I’ll be called, either.” 
You shift. Your fist, unconsciously, goes tense in her hand. “What’s your deal?” 
Her mouth tilts. “What’s yours?” 
You huff out a laugh. “You’re unbearable,” you say softly, which feels much kinder than calling her a bitch. “What are you - what do you mean?” 
I’m not hard to figure out, you want to tell her. I’ll let you in if you ask me to. But you - you, you imagine saying, cupping Karina’s face in your hands and saying her name like you’re praying to her, drafting scenes in your head with each whispered syllable - you. Look at you. I’d fill a thousand pages trying to find a way to understand you. 
“If you want to hurt me,” Karina says, “then hurt me.” 
Your throat dries up. Your fist falls open. “What?” 
“I wouldn’t blame you.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. You see her tongue dart over her bottom lip, the slick glimmer of spit. “If that’s what you wanted.” 
You stare at her, hard. 
It’s not difficult to make out her silhouette in the dark; she’s illuminated so distinctly by the moon, like it’s her own on-set spotlight, professionally arranged - she’s got the cosmos calling her shots. You think about how careful you’d been with her: doing what she wanted and making her cum and kissing her like you have history and maybe fucking her like you love her, just a little.
You think about that bruise you left on her chest, her skin between your teeth, the feeling of biting down. 
“It’s not,” you say, and the lie tastes acrid in your mouth. “It’s - it’s not, Karina.” 
“You fucked my face in public within like an hour of meeting me. And fucked me and came on my stomach. And fingered your cum inside of me.” It’s far past midnight. She sounds more alert than she should. “You’re gonna start being polite now?”
It sends an odd knot to your gut, the way she puts it. Equating all of that to hurting her. Laughing in the face of your clenched fist - not because she thinks you won’t do it, but because she knows how bad you want it. 
Hurt me. She says it like it’s so easy. Fuck me. Let me stay the night. Hurt me; you’ve earned it. 
“I’m not polite.” The truth doesn’t taste much better. “I just have, you know, common fucking decency.” 
“Hm,” Karina says, a nonchalant little noise, and nothing else.
You brush her hair off her neck and your fingertips graze the hollow of her throat. You feel her swallow under your touch. You open your mouth, though you’re not sure what you’re about to say - Karina, like a chant, like she’s consumed you in a matter of moments, Karina - but she shuts her eyes delicately, and curls close to you, and just like that the moment is over. 
I have common decency, you’d said. I won’t hurt you. I promise. I can control myself.
So maybe you weren’t right about everything. You’re not the devil. That’d be a delusion of grandeur - the idea that you’d ever have that kind of power over a girl like her. 
Not for long, she’d replied, in the knowing tilt of her smile. Not if I can help it.
-
In the morning, it’s a picture of crime-scene proportions. It takes a little work to piece it all together.
Karina’s not in bed when you wake up, but there are traces of her everywhere - telltale, incriminating bits of evidence. Strands of her hair on the pillow. Blood-red lipstick stains on the fabric. Her crimson dress crumpled on your bedroom floor, sporting a tiny tear in the hem that you don’t remember leaving; you can still smell her perfume all over your sheets, like a calling card. If this was a TV drama - a clichéd police procedural - she’d probably be dead in your living room right now, blank-eyed and beyond saving, rigor mortis deforming her perfect body into something grotesque. 
This is also probably not a thought you should ever relay to Karina, but you do anyway.
“Sorry to disappoint,” she replies. She’s perched on your kitchen counter, dressed in one of your t-shirts, bare legs swinging. “I’m very much alive.”
“I was being dramatic,” you try to say, gesturing with your hands to set the scene - the lighting, the fake blood and the special effects, the potential pallor of her face. “I’m - I’m a screenwriter. It’s in my nature. I didn’t mean I wanted to find your fucking corpse out here-”
“It’s okay if you did.”
You choke. “What?”
“I’m right with you, babe.” Karina leans forward conspiratorially. There’s a sharpness to the dark glint in her eyes that kind of makes you think she really does understand: that she has the same tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions. A kindred, morbid spirit. “I get it. I’m pretty devastated that I’m still breathing, too.”
She says this all in a scratchy, sultry voice, hoarse as though she’s been sleeping for years instead of hours. Lashes fluttering like she’s just told you something very adorable and sweet.
“God,” you say, desperately charmed, and laugh until you feel light-headed. “You’re sick.”
Karina’s mouth curls. “Right.”
“I’m serious.” It’s surreal: her wearing your clothes and sitting on your counter like this is an everyday occurrence, indulging every fucked-up thing you say to her. Maybe you’re still caught somewhere in a dream, just waiting to wake up. “You’re, like - not normal.” 
“Hey.” A light, careless shrug; her palm rests over the back of her neck. “No arguments here.”
You rub a hand over your eyes, smiling like an idiot, and take a breath. 
It’s late January, and cool sunlight drips into the room, over your furniture and your floors and the angel right in the middle of your kitchen. It should wash her out, blur her at the edges; it doesn’t even come close. Turns her to a freeze frame instead, carefully color-graded, every hue just a bit too intense: skin ghost-pale, lips pouty and pink, hair jet-black and tangled to her waist. Your shirt hangs off of her slender frame like it aims to swallow her up. You thought you’d been stunned by Karina before, lulled by the late night, the electric rush of touching her - you’d assumed you could blame it on the alcohol, the slutty dress and the sultry makeup and the long-held habit of artistic romanticization-
But it’s nothing compared to seeing her now. 
Karina crosses one leg over the other, and waits as though expecting a rating: to be starred out of five like a film. 
Face scrubbed clean. Bone structure a study of faultless symmetry, delicate in a way that feels both inhuman and invulnerable. She’s so classically breathtaking - a miraculous second coming of a tragic, iconic movie star, a phenomenon back from the grave; jaw and nose and mouth all clean lines, aesthetically precise art - but God, those eyes. Enormous without the thick liner, suggestive only of impossible innocence. Like some darling baby animal, some long-lashed lamb to the slaughter - something pristine and completely untouched. 
The morning after, the direct light, the exposed behind-the-scenes - she’s still beyond beautiful. 
And somehow she’s still here with you. 
“That’s insane, by the way,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “That you stayed.” 
There’s a loud cracking sound. 
You squint, disoriented. “What-” 
Karina blinks at you, wide-eyed; her jaw shifts. The sound echoes again, startling and sudden. “What?” 
“Are-” You step closer. “Are you chewing on fucking glass or something?” 
“Or something,” Karina replies, smile’s tiny and closed-off. She gestures to the cup next to her. “It’s just ice.” 
She’s so calm watching you approach her. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the freakout, for the breakdown - or, at the very least, the scrambling excuses before the walk of shame. Here’s the truth: she doesn’t know you. Here’s an even worse truth: judging by her hickey that looks like you might’ve tried to rip her throat out earlier, she’d have every right to take one look at you and run. 
Karina doesn’t do any of it. Just raises her cup to her lips and tips it back, the arc of her neck so inviting. 
“That’s so fucking bad for your enamel.” You’re laughing again. You’re in front of her now, settled between her legs. “You’re gonna break a tooth.” 
Karina sets her glass down. Wipes the corner of her mouth with her wrist, eyes locked amusedly on yours - heavy-lidded enough to seem lazy, but pupils blown enough to be a siren call, a deliberate suggestion.
“Oh, no,” she says, all smoky sarcasm. “Who’d ever want me then?” 
She parts her thighs the second you touch them; her body’s so obedient under your fingertips, like a doll’s, something to be dressed up and posed and played with. Daring you to do everything you’re already thinking about doing. 
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, and give in completely.
So:
Look, you know exactly how the movies would frame this. Pandering to the wide-eyed teenagers and hopeless romantics; adding the swell of strings every time your eyes or hands or lips meet, each motion accompanied with unsubtle cues - there’s the meet-cute, there’s the moment, there’s the love-at-first-sight. It’s ridiculous to drag any of that into your real life, of course. It’d be like believing in God. Giving up logic to put your faith in something silly and mythic and implausible - to follow true love like a religion, expecting it to save your soul; to pray to the one like a healing property, a benevolent higher power. 
You can’t believe in that. You can’t. 
But-
Karina pulls back the barest amount, eyelids fluttering open like a new day dawning, and smiles when she sees the look on your face. So sweet and gorgeous; so struck and adoring. So comfortable wrapped up in your arms.
“Hi,” she murmurs. 
And - as though it’s some bone-deep instinct, saturating your bloodstream - you just have to kiss her again. 
Don’t you feel that? you think of telling her again, your hand slipping to cup her cheek - the sentiment always seems to come back around. You swear you can see scenes flashing behind your eyelids, the beginnings of a creative epiphany; it must be seeping through your fingers, staining her skin with ink, every possible action depicted neatly between brackets. A laugh, a look, a touch. A version of Karina projected across the silver screen to a wild, wanting audience. Don’t you see what you could do for me? What you’re capable of becoming? 
You can’t believe in any of this, but it’s gotta be something close. 
The feeling doesn’t end when the kiss does: only intensifies, made tangible somehow. Sculpted into the spit-slick curve of her lips, the flinty gleam in her eye. Like she feels it too. Like she knows. 
“And it’s not insane that I stayed,” Karina says, belatedly. “You asked me to.” 
For a moment you just stare at her, seconds from her mouth and speechless. 
It’s the truth without difficulty. It’s a confession with no strings attached. It’s the fucking dangerous way she says it - as if whatever you want extends to a lot more than sex. 
“And you don’t-” Your throat closes over a swallow; you find your eyes darting between hers, searching for anything but honesty. “You don’t think that’s insane? Doing whatever a stranger tells you to?”
Karina only laughs her strange laugh, gritty the way good music is, demanding to be heard.
“Nope,” she says, like this is all so simple. “That’s just what I do.”
It’s unbearably filthy in its implication - and it’s exactly what you need. 
The room seems to fill with potential, fantasies pouring in from the ceiling, enough to bloat any manuscript to its breaking point. You let out a breathless laugh, loud and unabashed. You think of pushing for even more, pressing your nails in and digging deeper - why me, why this, why now - but Karina leans in close before you can and slots her mouth to yours, and you’re no fool: there’s no line of questioning worth giving that up. 
Seems like you’ll have to come up with this character motivation all on your own. 
-
“Look at us,” she murmurs against your lips - meaning this very minute, the chemistry, how every glittering star must’ve conspired to get you here. “Kinda feels like this was meant to be, huh?” 
She’s clearly kidding, because it’s too soon and too fucking crazy, but-
Well, the way you kiss her then is absolutely your version of a yes. 
-
Here’s something people should probably know about artists like you:
You’re rather enamored with the idea of a magnum opus. 
It’s a natural thing to reach for, to visualize - the concept of your one great masterpiece. Something you can pour years and years into, water into roaring reckless oceans; time transforming the things you make into something worth remembering forever. Everyone you know - your sculptors, your songwriters - has their own version of this, somewhere. When I finally create this one perfect thing I’ll be - go on, fill in the blank. Fulfilled. Gratified. Happy. When I finally do this, I’ll feel whole. 
It’s strangely fantastical. A lifelong dream a kid would have - a childlike, storybook aspiration. 
Yours - as far as you’ve figured out - looks a little like this:
“It’s not as romantic as it should be,” you admit, now. “I’m not really into that as a theme. True love, I mean. Or optimism. Or hope. I want something more…” Something rougher, you mean. Something with pain. Something with blood and bruises. “Nuanced, you know? Complicated, messy.” 
“I get it,” replies Karina. She has her hands twisted in her lap, watching you very closely. You’re obsessed with the way she looks at you - like she’s drinking every word in with those smoldering dark eyes, greedy for more. For you. “All the best art is about pain, huh?” 
You snap your fingers, pleased to be understood. “Exactly.” 
Karina smiles, small and knowing, and gestures you on. 
In your vision, your magnum opus is always about a girl. Like you said, it’s the way it goes with all the best films ever made: not about love, but the futility of it lasting. Think of all the famed examples - think of the filmmakers and their obsessions, sneaking the great loves of their lives between each line: there’s something she said, there’s a dress she wore, there’s a conversation they had in the middle of the night, tangled up in sheets and whispering against skin. Your future muse will be just like that. A reincarnation of the infamous women who haunt all the greatest artists - an amalgamation of their bodies contorted into narratives and replicated in loving, graphic detail. Someone with skin like marble, a statue you could take a sledgehammer to. Someone who looks unfathomably pretty when she cries. 
Someone like-
“Uh-huh,” says Karina. She must’ve just gotten out of the shower before you found her, because her hair’s damp enough to have left wet patches on your t-shirt. She licks her bottom lip, once. “Sure.” 
Someone to be what you’ve always wanted: a flawless girl to fall from the sky into your lap. To fulfill your promise to yourself: when I meet her, I’ll know. I’ll be able to make this movie. When I meet her, everything will slip exactly into place. 
Karina cracks another ice cube between her teeth.
“So,” she says, low with insinuation. “When you told me last night that you found me inspiring…”
She doesn’t need to finish the question. She knows exactly what you want.
“You’re…” You shake your head. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I saw you and I just - I felt like I knew. I knew. I wanted you.” You shrug helplessly, smiling. “Do you think I’m nuts?” 
She should, probably. You’re a total stranger, a practical lunatic, an artist talking of your visions like you’re possessed. You don’t know her - that’s the reality of the situation. You don’t know her. 
But then there’s everything else.
The unbelievable sex, the staying the night; the way she lets you touch her, blinking slow and subservient, like you already have a claim to her body. You think muse and you think in abstract concepts, glittering stars, guiding lights; you think of skin cut up and sewn together, of creators and their finest monsters, of the implicit poetry in the undoing. You think muse and you think of the way Karina smiles at you now, full lips and frail bones, a painter’s portrait reference. Unmoving, unafraid. Too otherworldly for your day-to-day but just right when she’s in your arms, like a trial-run demonstration: this is what we’re capable of. You could make it happen. You could make me fit.
You swear you’ve been dreaming of someone like her your whole fucking life. 
You think muse, and now you can only think of her. 
It’s a sign. It must be. And this, the next one:
“No,” Karina says, easily. “I think you’re just like everyone else.” But she raises an eyebrow, so you know it’s a joke. “I think you’re all the same.” 
You laugh, delighted; Karina’s smile widens, shows her teeth. “Shut up.” 
Karina acquiesces immediately - claps a hand over her mouth like it’ll keep any other words from escaping. It’s so adorable that you can’t keep yourself from pouncing, suddenly all over her like an animal: wrenching her thin wrist down, fingers threading through her hair, tugging her lips to yours as if you’ve been starved and she’s something to devour. She’s so cold, ice still melting on her tongue; even her body feels glacial, more porcelain than real. It drives you wild - the stunning impossibility of her. The desire to see it all reworked, unwound, shattered. 
“So,” you breathe over her mouth. “I can write about you?” 
“Babe.” Karina’s dark eyes sparkle, frozen-over streets in the mid-winter sun. “You can do anything you want with me.” 
That’s the whole point of having a muse, after all. Everything they are becomes yours. 
-
“But,” you can’t help saying right after: “you don’t have to be, like - concerned. About what I said. About art and pain. I mean…” You falter. You’re standing in between her spread legs now, thumbing the sharp curve of her jaw. “It’s fiction. I’m not that kind of guy in real life - I’m not going to hurt you.” 
Karina just stares at you, sentiment clear and unspoken. 
“Not like - not seriously.” You roll your eyes, laughing it off. “Not like that.” 
“Not like that,” Karina echoes. The hickey on her neck seems to flush redder every time you look at it - a photograph in a darkroom, developing. “But in other ways.”
Your mouth opens, but whatever defense you might’ve had gets traitorously stuck in your throat.
Karina laughs hoarsely, lets you trace her bottom lip with a finger. She seems to get the picture - that you’d love to see it bitten and bloody, but only ever in the name of art. There’s a kind of sick, sadistic beauty in destruction, battles waged and lost. She leans into your touch like she’s seen all the war films and knows precisely why they’re so well-loved. 
“For the record,” she tells you, arms looped loosely around your neck: “I look very pretty when I cry.” 
“Jesus Christ.” You’re smiling. She couldn’t be more perfect if you’d dreamt her up yourself. “Then I guess I’ll have to make it happen.” 
-
It’s like fate, probably. 
-
(Up next in your script:
The girl is standing in the stranger’s bathroom. She’s turning a little glass perfume bottle over in her hands when he stops in the doorway. He’s perfectly content to watch her; she’s the kind of beautiful that deserves to be observed, like some exotic wild animal caged between four walls in an elaborate exhibit, mildly unaware of all the attention. Her hair is messy; her head is tilted down. Unseeing. 
Oh, he says. That was my-
Except he doesn’t even get the rest of the sentence out before the girl whirls around, and the bottle slips from her hand and shatters on the floor. 
Jesus. The stranger jolts back. Jumpy. He’s not too concerned about the broken bottle; it’s not his, anyway. Why the fuck did you do that? 
Sorry, the girl says. She’s leaning rather casually against the counter, observing the glass covering the ground, the sickly-sweet smell of the perfume sticking to the tile. Honeysuckle and the sharp note of alcohol, rendered unrecognizable. You scared me. 
He looks down. A crystalline stretch of tiny little shards - if she tried to move she’d slice her foot open. 
No worries, he says. Hold on. 
He ducks into the kitchen to get a broom and when he comes back he stops in his tracks. There’s something slightly off about the picture in front of him. She’s small against the background counter, frozen, barely blinking. Everything about her looks suddenly frail, fair skin ghostly underneath shitty bathroom lighting, cheekbones gaunt and sunken-in, hair pouring ink-black in endless waves. A vengeful spirit. An incorporeal haunting. 
Did you…? he starts to say, thrown. 
She blinks, finally. Did I what? 
He pauses, reassesses. She’s gorgeous. She’s art. She’s vibrantly alive. 
Never mind, he says. 
It seems kind of like she’d moved, but he can’t tell. He forgets about it. She’s still beautiful and she seems okay and so he steps forward and clears the worst of the glass out of the way. 
It’s silly, she says, watching him. I used to know someone who wore that perfume. 
It was my ex-girlfriend’s, he says. She left it here a while back. I think it’s a common brand or whatever. Hey, let me help you. 
He’s very chivalrous about it, sweeping her off her feet, cradling her bridal-style across the possible remnants of glass. She laughs all the while, playing into it - a princess out of a fairy tale, being carried to safety by some gallant knight. But then he sets her down and cups her ass and says, You gonna pay me back for the property damage or what? and she laughs harder, because there’s nothing funnier than that: sweet moments turned filthy, a startling hairpin turn in intention. 
Or - conversely - a revelation of the absolute truth. Because what else could he ever want from her?
So she says, Yeah, sure, take everything, and leans in to kiss him.
It’s a normal kiss, mostly. It’s just that it begins pointedly erotic but seems to turn strange after a second, like he might be gripping her hair too hard, like she might be corpse-limp in his arms, like at any moment he could unhinge his jaw and sprout fangs and swallow her whole, cannibalistic, viperous. There’s too much spit and sound. There’s too much teeth and selfishness. It stretches on too long and lingers where it shouldn’t and overstays its welcome terribly - the score seems to fall off-beat, the lighting seems to shift dark and discolored-
But then the kiss breaks, and it’s over. 
When he pulls off of her she looks like the perfect picture of flushed contentment. Eyes half-lidded and lashes fluttering, her pouty lips swollen and rosy. Smiling like she wants more, like she wants it so, so bad. 
It didn’t get you? he asks finally, looking at her neck, thinking of thorns and pinprick pain and the rivulet of crimson that’d decorated her throat. The glass? 
No, she says. Don’t you wanna fuck me now? 
Oh, God, he says, grinning, and every other thought melts away into nothing. He likes how she doesn’t play coy. He likes how she’s smaller and has to tilt her chin up to look at him. He wants to fuck her, so he does. 
It’s excellent sex. The blood on the tile doesn’t really matter.)
-
Before you really start writing, there’s just one singular problem: you don’t know anything about her. 
“That’s not true,” Karina replies, right away. 
You open your mouth, then close it, because - okay, she’s not completely wrong. 
For about an hour now you just haven’t been able to stop talking to her. About anything, everything: your start into screenwriting, your favorite novels, your greatest inspirations, your neverending passion for eerie, erotic art. You can’t seem to shut up. And it would be bad - would be making you feel self-conscious right now, if it were anyone else - but it’s just not. Because it’s, well-
It’s you, you told her, thoughtfully, watching as the sun climbed higher into the sky, golden light grazing each scalpel-sharp edge of Karina’s body. You’re easy to talk to. Has anyone ever told you that?
Karina blinked at you. Tucked a strand of silky hair behind her ear and looked away, considering it. 
She has this way about her: this serene openness to her big eyes, her body language. Leaning back on her hands, humming and nodding and saying I get it, I feel that way too, I understand with such sweet sincerity that you can’t help but believe her. Like a Catholic confessional, a pristinely blank page - something you could pour hours and hours of words into that would never, ever complain. 
Yeah, Karina said, finally. She pulled one leg up to her chest; you could see the lacy black of her panties. I get that all the time. 
Just one of those people, huh? Her character was taking shape already. A vault for everyone else’s thoughts and ideas, cradling them between her fingers like something infinitely precious. A listener. Such a lovely trait; a perfect protagonist characteristic. An observer. 
Yeah. Her cheek rested gently against a knobby knee. Exactly. 
It’s something of an art study. You’ve been filing away these details about Karina since the moment you met her, unraveling her bit by bit.
She always seems to think deeply before she speaks, a sort of charming self-scripting, like she wants to make sure she gets every sentence just right. She makes silence seem like the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t laugh nervously or blush or get embarrassed, ever. She’d mentioned offhand during one of your tangents about your most beloved movies that she tends to like films about gorgeous, dangerous, scarily self-possessed girls: Thirteen and Black Swan and Girl, Interrupted. She seems both intensely present and consistently lost in thought, there one moment and gone the next, her long-lashed gaze falling in and out of focus like a camera lens. A contradiction, you think to yourself. An enigma, even. Profoundly complicated. Not just a girl but something more. 
Art in and of itself, displayed deliberately on your kitchen counter, waiting to be understood. 
“No, you’re right.” Your fingers have strayed to your open laptop; you’re seconds from typing Karina’s name like a title, something you’ve created all on your own. “I know…”
You’re trying to think of something nonchalant to say and failing. I know you - the first instinct, somehow. I know you’re something brilliant and remarkable and new. I know I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. I know there’s something here, I know what I feel, I know what I want - you, you, you. 
Karina stares at the ice melting in her glass. 
Then she says, mouth tripping up at a corner: “You know I’m a world-class fuck.” 
“Jesus.” You laugh out loud, surprised. “Okay, yeah. That.” A pause. “And, obviously-” 
“Obviously,” Karina echoes, like she knows where this is going. 
“I know that you’re, like - outrageously fucking beautiful.” 
Karina hums once, letting the compliment wash over her, and turns to look out the window. 
You bite down on your lip - bite back all the other too-soon things you could say about her, threatening to claw their way out of your mouth - and go in on your script instead. 
It’s shockingly easy to write with her in the room. The details seem to stitch themselves together on-page, the restorative aftermath of an autopsy: sealing the slit chest cavity back up, prepping a corpse for an open casket, making something disconnected whole and beautiful again. You’d pulled these specifics from her like pulsing, throbbing organs - her tits, her tone, her tiny waist - and now all you’re doing is repurposing them. You know her body now. You turn stretches of pale, bruised-pink skin into prose, the curl of her little fingers around her thigh into dialogue. You imagine taking that perfect frame and picking it apart again, bit by bit; not just undressing her but peeling back layers of flesh, familiarizing yourself with the stark scarlet of her bloodstream. Until there’s nothing to hide and you can finally say it - I know you - and it’ll feel earned, and real, and honest. 
All very melodramatic, of course. It’s just the process: the natural consequence of being a writer. 
Your eyes trace the jutting protrusion of muscle in Karina’s throat, and you think about fucking her again. 
“Also,” you say, as though your earlier conversation isn’t long over. “I want to know-”
Karina makes a huffy, half-impatient noise.
You grin, gaze flicking back to her face. “What?” 
“You want to know more?” Her brows furrow in exaggerated confusion; her smile is absurdly self-deprecating. As if there’s anything she could possibly be insecure about. “You already got the two most interesting things about me, babe.” 
“Stop.” Your mouth twitches. “No way.” 
Karina’s smile stills in place, expectant. “No?”
“Come on.” Your hand slips from the keyboard to trace her knee. “I’m sure there’s all kinds of interesting things about you I haven’t learned yet.” 
The laugh she lets out is quiet and nearly secretive, legs parting to let you touch her. You’re already half in some faraway daydream, wondering if you can bottle the color of her eyes and turn it loose on the page.
“Okay,” Karina says, easily. She nudges your laptop away, scoots closer to you, her sharp chin pointed down at you. “Come and learn them, then.” 
“God.” As if that’s what you’re doing. Memorizing her body as some private education; taking her apart in a classroom dissection. “Can I - I’m trying to write, Karina. I’m being productive. I…” You’re shaking your head as though you’re not already giving in, fingers slipping up her thighs - she’s smirking at you like she knows it. “You’re fucking insatiable, you know that?”
“Then satiate me.” Karina’s head tilts, lids heavy. “Fuck me. Use me.” She leans down like she’s telling you a filthy, sordid secret. “Cum in me like I know you want to.” 
There’s something surreal about how certain she is: never tripping over her words or waffling over intentions, the most practiced actress you’ve ever seen. Every move - her tongue wetting her bottom lip, her hand sliding gracefully through her hair, her mouth forming a sweet little pout - all clean, choreographed precision. 
I know you, she says - like it’s earned, real, honest. Inexplicable, but there anyway. I know you want to. 
“Karina.” Her name comes out embarrassingly strangled. You’re pulling her thighs further apart, toying with the edge of her underwear. “You’re such a fucking - you’re so needy.” 
Her smirk sharpens even as you tug her panties roughly to the side. “I’m what?” 
“Needy.” 
“No.” She’s so wet - she’s probably seconds from dissolving into a whimpering breathless thing, begging to be underneath you, begging for more. That damn smirk is probably seconds from shattering completely. “What were you going to call me?” 
“Nothing.” You drag a finger down the slick drenched heat of her cunt.
“A slut.” Her voice is a purr, gravelly and sensual. “You think I’m just this fucking slut who needs your cock all the time, huh?” 
But it’s the kind of question that you already both know the answer to. Karina takes your finger-fucking so well, hips raised and rutting, hair cutting across her cheekbones - seems to give herself over to desire so fucking easily, with her whole body, back arching and neck craned and hot little cunt a sloppy mess. Never puts up a fight, never demures or acts shy; never says wait or don’t or stop. Only spreads her legs, and drips down your hand, and waits to be fucked good and hard.
And - hey, there’s one dirty word for a girl like that. 
“Well.” You raise your eyebrows at her: a challenge. “Are you?”
It’s dangerous. This is all dangerous. Stumbling down a treacherous path, asking a stranger something like this. Are you what I think you are? Do I know you? Do I really? 
Karina makes a low, luxurious noise at the stretch of your fingers in her cunt, buried to the knuckle. 
“Sure,” she says - and the gleam in her eye tells you she knows exactly what she’s getting herself into. “I’m whatever you want me to be.” 
-
So, it’s possible this is really the most interesting thing about her: she’s the kind of girl who never says no. 
-
That scene goes down how all scenes should:
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” 
Karina’s choking out curses like she can’t recall any other words, head lolling back to expose the pretty bob of her throat. You thrust deep right then and she lets out a sound like an aching gasp, like you’ve doubled down with a fist to her gut, like you’re knocking the the air right out of her; you might as well be - oh, she moans, like she could be in shock or awe or pain - with the way you’ve got one of her thighs pulled up so you can fuck deep into her tight dripping cunt. It’s not nice, not really. Her back keeps hitting your counter. You keep staring at her neck and her hair and her face: the faint flush of her cheeks, the flawless construction of her bones underneath - there’s so much unmarked skin - God, she’s so clean, it’s like she’s never been fucking touched-
“You gonna cum for me?” you murmur, voice coming out thick and half-animalistic. 
She has one hand curled around the back of your neck. She’s got those ridiculous clawed nails on her but she never presses down. Her pussy can’t stop clenching around your cock but she takes it so well, lets you make room inside her little cunt, shuts her eyes and trips over her own breath as you force her spine hard against your counter over and over again. 
“Karina.” 
“Yeah,” she exhales, raspy and strained, as your cock stretches her out. “Fuck, yeah-” 
“Cum for me, honey. Cum all over my cock - oh, there you go, good girl-” 
It’s hypnotic. The tiny bitten-off sounds spilling from her ice-cold mouth - that small pristine face and all that hair tangled to her waist, just available to be knotted and tugged and fucked all the way up - Karina clings to you when she cums, and you feel so much bigger than her when she does, like you’ve got her sloppy and open around your cock and you could do anything to her, that’s what she told you, and even if she hadn’t, it’s not like she could stop you - she’s gorgeous but she doesn’t have it in her - she’s just too fucking delicate-
It happens too fast to process. 
One minute you’re buried inside her pussy and the next Karina’s on her knees, on the ground, and you’re jerking your cock until you’re cumming all over her. 
It’s obscene. It’s fucking inevitable. Thick ropes of creamy cum coating her forehead, her cheekbone, her nose and mouth and getting all in that hair-
Her hair. You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping her hair with one hand - balled in a brutal fist at the back of her head - until you disentangle your fingers from it and Karina sinks to the floor like she’s just been cut loose from marionette strings, breathing fast and hard. She doesn’t even say anything: doesn’t comment on the fact that you’d just shoved her straight to the ground or complain when the head of your cock smears cum across her jaw. Doesn’t even flinch when your cock slaps heavy across her cheek, at the indecent sound of the impact. 
You’re staring at her, open-mouthed. At her gorgeous, breathtaking, defiled face. 
Karina’s not looking at you. Instead, she’s preening in the most lewd, pornographic way possible: swiping her thumb through the cum streaking across her forehead, popping it into her mouth to suck. Halfway through she seems to remember you’re still in the room - seems to recall the value of a performance - and she redirects her gaze up at you, lids heavy, and smirks. 
“Did I…” you start, without knowing how the sentence will end. “Did I - was I-”
Karina lifts a cum-covered eyebrow. Her mouth’s an arresting pink, puckering around her thumb like it puckered around the cubes of ice, how her lips formed a ring around your cock back in the bookstore yesterday. She lets it slip free, shiny with spit. 
“No,” she says. “You’re good.” 
You can’t stop looking at the cum caught in her hairline. She’d been so fucking clean. 
You glance down and realize there are strands of black hair broken off in your clenched fist. 
Karina’s looking at her hair in your hand too, now, but with a sort of amused detachment. She stands shakily, using the counter for support. There’s cum all over her. Her knees are red from how hard she’d been pushed down.
“You’re so cute,” she tells you, grazing the side of your neck with her fingertips. “There’s no shame in being rough with me, babe.” 
“Right.” There’s an unnamed pressure coiling in your chest. “But - but you-” 
“Hey.” The word comes out in a rasp, and then Karina laughs, pushing the low hoarse lilt of her voice to its limits. She steps closer, angles her little cum-stained chin up at you. “Are you really gonna tell me you don’t like seeing me covered in your cum?” She’s tonguing the corner of her mouth. “Turning me into a-” her smirk pulls wicked; your next breath hitches so badly- “messy fucking whore for your cock?” 
“God,” you get out, because she’s winding an arm around your neck, and her pretty face is still sticky with your cum. “I-” 
“It’s what you wanted.” Karina blinks, in a show of such doe-eyed naïveté that saliva begins pooling hot in your mouth - like you’re feral, like you’re rabid. “Isn’t it?” 
You’re looking down again. Her knees are going to bruise. Black and blue, as if someone’s bullied her in the schoolyard, pulled her pigtails and knocked her to the asphalt. An echo of something teachers could’ve told her years ago: oh, look, he’s mean to you because he’s got a crush. It’s okay, really - he only hurts you because he likes you.  
“You like me like this,” Karina murmurs, dangerously low. “All sloppy and slutty for you.” Her gaze is trained on your mouth. “Marking me up.” Her hair slips from your hand. “Owning me.” 
Her name clogs your throat, cloying and candy-sweet. “Karina-”
Karina’s head tilts. “Yes or no?” 
She’s too close to you. She’s so filthily beautiful she seems somewhat alien, some kind of foreign invention. Her jaw is smeared with your cum and her flawless teeth shine like jewels and she’s like every creative vision you’ve ever had cut in clips and playing back in a movie theater, made to be scrutinized. 
“Yes,” you tell her, winded. “You’re fucking - you’re unreal, you know that?”
You’re smiling like it’s flattery, like it’s an exaggeration. Like she’s not living, breathing, visionary art. 
She smiles back, like she knows just how much you really mean it.
“So I’ve been told,” Karina says, and taps your neck, lightly. “Go make breakfast.” She shakes her hair out; some of it gets stuck to the cum on her cheekbone. “I’m taking another shower.” 
“Right.” You bite into your bottom lip, hand skimming down her side. “Go get clean.” 
“Clean?” She steps back and flashes a disbelieving grin, gestures pointedly at herself - her creamy thighs, her porn star tits in your t-shirt, her body like sex itself. Dirty by design. “Never happening.”
Some cynical part of you keeps waiting for a slip-up, some mistake in a masterfully crafted script - no one can be that gorgeous and still be here with you. But Karina moves and your eyes are hopelessly drawn to the disheveled curtain of her hair spiraling down her back, the sharp distinct lines of her calves, the flex of muscle in her thighs. Her hands, balled into little fists. She’s alluring as if manufactured that way: engineered to be perfectly bruisable, ruinable. It defies logic. It’s movie magic.
“Well.” You snort with laughter, swat at Karina’s ass as she turns to go. “At least you can try.”
You don’t even think she can help it - that’s the thing. It’s just what she was made for. 
-
“What would you have done if I said no, though?” you ask after a moment, as she wavers in the doorway. “Like - what if I told you I didn’t like you like this?” 
Karina shrugs.
“I would’ve been something else,” she says, and closes the bathroom door behind her. 
-
(Next:
The stranger and the girl fuck and afterwards he promises her breakfast and then he realizes his cabinets are bare, his fridge painfully unstocked. Sorry, he says, as she pokes around his kitchen. I don’t know how that happened. I usually have something to eat here, I swear. 
I don’t mind, she says. Her fingertips sweep his shelves. She seems fascinated by the emptiness, admiring the vacancy. Oh, wait, look. 
She finds a half-eaten jar of honey that she ends up scooping up crudely with her fingers, dripping sticky amber down her hand. He’d tell her that’s disgusting but she makes it - as she seems to make everything - into a pointed seduction, her tongue pink and wetly visible, her skin gleaming as she licks it off. It’s funny. He’d never thought it possible to turn eating into some sort of sexual performance but she manages it anyway: meets his eyes, sucks loud and lewd, smacks her lips and wipes her mouth with her thumb, ill-mannered and stunning. 
I can’t imagine that’s very filling, he says, delighted by her commitment. 
Yeah, well, she says. It’s a good thing I hate feeling full. 
But it seems like a moment of hilarious irony when ten minutes later he’s got her bent over his kitchen counter, tits pressed punishingly to the flat surface, honey stuck to her neck and collarbone as she’s fucked hard again and again, stuffed with his cock, his fingers everywhere, like her own body barely even belongs to her - all mine, he keeps saying, and means it; you’re all mine. All filled up. Overfed. Bursting. 
Sex is a manner of consuming, it seems. He might as well be eating her alive.)
-
“Do you do this a lot?”
Eventually, it turns into one of those lazy Saturdays. An afternoon of sitcom plot points. 
It’s just so easy to fill the time, the space, the page - you tell Karina some inane story from your college years and she reacts in all the right places like your own built-in studio audience; she says something off-handed and enticingly vague and suddenly you have a new thread of dialogue to explore. You’re both sprawled out over your couch, Karina’s got her thighs tucked over your legs, wearing another one of your t-shirts, a fresh hickey bruising over her throat. There’s something delightfully domestic about it - like you’ve been doing it for a lot longer than you have, or like you could do it eternally if given the chance, holding all the silken comfort of an old routine. When you’d mentioned it - I kind of feel like I could do this forever - she’d laughed her scratchy laugh and said forever’s nowhere near as long as you think it is, babe. A perfectly cinematic line. You stared at her, leaned over, and added it immediately to your draft. 
“This whole…” You’re trying to elaborate now, staring at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen. Your knuckles skim her bare, bony knees. “You know.” 
“Eloquent.” 
“Shut up.” 
“I thought you were a writer.” 
“Karina.” You’re charmed by the drawl of her voice, the raspy roll of sarcasm. “I’m just wondering.”
Karina shifts in your lap. You’ve got one hand sneaking up the hem of her shirt - your shirt - skating up her tummy, her ribs. You’re probably about five minutes from snapping your laptop shut and pulling her on top of you and saying something crass about her tits and passing it off as a character study. 
“What do you mean?” She’s as close to clean as she can be. You made sure of it - licked the hollow of her collarbone earlier after she got out of the shower, tasted nothing but soap and skin. “Do I have a lot of sex with strangers? Or do I stay the night a lot after I have sex with strangers?”
“Both.” You think of taking her hair down, sifting your hand through it, wrapping the strands around your fingers. “All of the above.” 
Karina shoots you a look, fluttered lashes, suggestive understanding. You hear it without her having to say it. You want me to tell you that you’re special. 
“I’ve kind of been going through a phase,” she says instead, nonchalantly. 
Your eyebrows fly up. “A phase?” 
“I’ve been, you know.” She gives an airy sigh. “Trying to find myself in the big city. Running wild. Terrified of monogamy but being very brave and quirky about it. Sordid past with love and romance and general human connection. Doing the whole manic pixie dream girl thing.” Her eyes flick to your open laptop, abruptly too wide and innocent. “That sound about right?” 
“Fuck off.” It’s a complete non-answer. You run a hand past her stomach, laughing. “You’re fucking with me.”
“What?” Karina inches closer. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Your textbook rom-com love interest?”
You make a rather disparaging sound in the back of your throat. “Ugh.” 
“Oh, my bad.” Her mouth curls, contradictory. There’s nothing apologetic about her. “I forgot. You don’t believe in art about love. You wanna see broken people and broken people only.” 
“See?” You’re obsessed with her tone; all flirtation, some distorted version of come-hither charm. Talking of suffering like it’s a seduction tactic. “You get it.” 
Karina rakes a hand through her hair; her fingers fall to the back of her neck and linger there. She pulls herself out of your lap and turns, hooks one bare long leg over you until she’s straddling you. Your hands find her hips. You’re disarmed by her strange weightlessness, like she’s seconds from either shattering or taking flight.  
Then she asks, “Is that what you’re doing with me?”
It’s gotta be a very roundabout request to fuck her stupid, because she follows it up torturously: ducks her chin, parts her lips, rocks her hips down until you groan. You watch her throat, the way muscle works over bone, picturing unspeakable things: taking her by that pretty neck and pinning her to the wall, ripping your shirt right off of her with your fingertips leaving bruises - bending her over to fuck her fast and cruel until her cunt’s raw and aching and leaking your cum - until she’s begging pathetically, saying please, God, please - and you’re triumphant, victorious. Telling her you asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything. You said anything I want. 
“Depends,” you reply, when you can breathe again. “Are you a broken person?” 
Karina stops, moments from your mouth. 
“Depends,” she echoes. “Is that what you want from me?”
It actually takes a beat for the question to sink in. Then two, then-
“No,” you say, loudly. “Obviously not, Karina, Jesus. Why would I…”
You falter. 
Karina only looks back at you, patient, tolerant. Like if right now you said that’s exactly it: I want you broken, I want you ruined, I want you decaying and dead and buried, she’d smile and say do your worst. Flashing those white, white teeth, perfect like pearls, ready to be knocked right out and strung together. 
You blink the bloody vision away. “Why would I ever want that?”
Karina studies you for a second longer, expression indecipherable. 
“Okay,” she agrees, breezily. “Then I’m not broken. I’m just going through a phase, like I said. I don’t like being tied down.” Her shirt rides tantalizingly high up her thighs; her hand slips down to palm your cock. There’s a twist to her lips, a dirty sort of smirk. “You understand that, right?”
You stare at her.
“Right?” Karina prods, again, low and sultry. 
“Right,” you say, unable to fight your sudden smile. 
The pout of her mouth’s an inevitability; her little body in your lap’s a seductive form of foreshadowing. You dig your fingers into her protruding ribs, playful, and you don’t quite get the squeal of laughter you were expecting - all Karina does is curl closer, expecting more, expecting harder. She knows what you’re capable of. You’re both just biding your time until you cross the same line you’ve been crossing and you fall back into bed again.
“A phase,” you add, considering. It intrigues you, anyway - the casualness, the connotation. “So - I’m not special, then. That’s the moral of this story.” 
Karina’s fingers sift gently through your hair. “You wanna be special?”
“I mean, yeah.” Your palm falls to her neck, presses down. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Doesn’t everyone?” 
Her eyebrows rise in vague, unconvinced amusement. It makes sense: she’s the most special of all, a cosmic glitch, an angelic fluke. Someone like Karina wouldn’t understand the aching, clawing, consuming desire to be extraordinary. She’s already there. 
Your hand on her throat looks even bigger now, tendons straining from underneath skin.
“I think we all want to feel important,” you mumble, thumb grazing gently across her jaw. “Don’t you?” 
You’re pretty sure the wry, glittering smile that sits at Karina’s mouth is an answer in itself. 
-
Alright, forget your television metaphors - you’re not sure there’s any sitcom out there that goes quite like this.
“By the way,” you say, grinning against her hair as you pull her to the bedroom. “Did you say you don’t like being tied down?” 
Karina turns in your arms and doesn’t even flinch when you force her too hard against the doorframe and its edge smacks into her shoulder blade, digging in hard. You should apologize but you don’t; the possibility of her in pain seems laughable, a distant fantasy. This is how it goes, fucking a girl who looks like a god - your brain is convinced she’s wholly immune to hurt. The universe wouldn’t actually let someone so pretty bleed. 
“Oh, sorry,” she says, voice raspy with insinuation. “Let me rephrase.” 
“Karina,” you say, not really like a warning - more like you’ve got something to prove. This is real. You’re really here. You’re really this perfect, gorgeous, greedy thing. You’re really made for me. 
Karina only lets her lips tilt in a smirk, devilish and knowing.
“I meant that I don’t like commitment,” she says. “I love being tied down.”
She’s still smiling when you shove her through the doorway, across the threshold - across that same old fucking line.
-
Not that it makes a difference now, but one of the reasons you and your most recent ex-girlfriend broke up was because of what you’d both referred to as sexual incompatibility. Actually, there were about fourteen other things, too - she was a trainwreck and a textbook attention whore; you spent all your time writing and she took offense to the fact that you found your scripts more interesting than her - but the crux of the sex problem between the two of you was that she thought you wanted too much power over her. She seemed to assume that was the point of potentially tying her up and shit like that: to exert power. To put you and only you in control. To make her into this helpless little toy - and I hate that, she’d said, working herself into a fit, I hate feeling helpless. 
You hadn’t pushed her. You’d also tried to justify it in a number of ways. It isn’t about that. It’s not about control. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But it hadn’t made a difference and she hadn’t believed you and you’d come to the reluctant, inevitable conclusion that that particular dream would never actually get fulfilled. 
Until-
“Look at you, baby.” 
Until now, when you’ve got Karina stripped bare and tied to your bed, thighs parted as you kneel over her, pretty little cunt glistening wet and tits heaving with every breath as she waits, and waits, and waits. 
Eyes half-lidded. Utterly fuckable. A curated collection of every salacious desire you’ve ever had. 
“You’ve been looking at me forever,” murmurs Karina, her tone still humorous, like the reason her voice is run so ragged is because she’s holding back a fit of giggles. “You gonna fuck me anytime soon?” 
To Karina’s credit, the idea of tying her up didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She’d let you knot her wrists to your bedframe and only grinned sharply when you asked her if it was too much. She didn’t seem to care about feeling helpless or feeling bad. Actually - judging from the wetness that collects on your fingers as you rub two of them over her cunt - it all seemed to turn her on either way. 
“You’re so fucking mouthy.” You lift your hand only to ghost it over her stomach, leaving a lewd shiny streak across her skin. “It’s like you want to be punished.” 
“Well, you put in all this work.” Karina yanks at the ropes tethering her wrists to the bedframe until they bite so severely into her skin that it turns white. “I’d hate to see it go to waste.” 
“Not a waste.” 
“No?” She’s got that seductive little smirk on, legs spread shamelessly, head back and throat bared. 
“Nope.” Your eyes rove down her body. “It’s a great view, actually.”
You’re shocked by the sound Karina makes, then: harsh and derisive, scratchy and painful, like she’s choking badly around some injury in her throat. You’re half-expecting her to turn her face and spit blood onto your sheets - all murder-scene evidence, horrifically vibrant gore. Coughing up her own vocal chords. 
It’s so awful it actually takes you a minute to realize that she’s laughing. 
“Karina?” you say, perturbed.
“Oh, please.” Karina hacks out one more horrid laugh. “Cut the shit.” 
You draw your hand back uncertainly. “What are you-”
“Come on, man.” There’s a glint to Karina’s gaze as she looks up at you: bored, mocking, infuriating. Irises flashing like the darkest corners of haunted houses, set-ups for a summoning; lashes like cobwebs, self-spun and delicate. “Fuck me or leave me alone.”
For a second you just stare at her, unmoving, something caustic and furious threading up your spine. 
And then-
Look, none of this next part is on you. You can’t blame yourself. It’s her - her tiny hands in tight clenched fists, tummy so flat it seems caved-in, hollowed-out; her own glimmer of slick smeared on her belly, physical proof of how desperately slutty she really is. The bruise on her chest; the one on her throat. Her goddamn eyes. Her lazy, lilting drawl, the exact matter-of-fact casualness she’d had last night when she’d told you to hurt her - fuck me or leave me alone. 
It’s so obvious what she’s trying to do - provoke a reaction out of you. It’s gotta be the only reason she’s talking to you like that. Like, what else are we here for? Like, what else could I possibly want from you? 
So - no, God, it’s not your fault. 
But-
It’s over before you can even think about it. Before you’ve even rationalized doing it, before you recognize the sound ricocheting through the room as the perfect violent land of a blow, the hot whiplash of skin on skin, your palm connecting with its target. Before you blink, and recalibrate, and you take in the rapid reddening of her cheek, and her angled jaw, and her hair falling starkly past her chin - it’s too late. It’s already done. 
Because you’ve just slapped Karina clean across the face - hard. 
“Oh.” You’re babbling as if on autopilot, all your nerves on shutdown. “Oh. Oh, God. Karina-” 
Karina licks the corner of her lip, like she can taste the impact. 
“Jesus Christ,” you’re saying, panicking; you can’t shut up. You don’t know what to do with your hands; you find yourself kneeling carefully in front of her, cupping her face, stroking her temples with your thumbs like it’ll soothe the sting. You can’t believe you hit her. All the things you could do to a girl like that, and you - “I’m sorry. I didn’t - fuck, baby. I’m sorry.”
Karina blinks up at you, expression placid and blank, porcelain-doll cool. 
“For what?” she asks. 
You freeze, her face still between your palms. “For-”
But the serene tilt of her mouth makes the words die in your throat. 
“Seriously.” Karina’s voice is softer now, a kind twist of mirth. “Isn’t that what you wanted to do with me this whole time?” 
Her features seem to fall out of alignment, occurring to you in cut, edited fragments - the baby-animal eyes, the bone-white glint of teeth, the pretty blooming flush of her cheek, blood rising underneath skin but never breaking through. No evidence of a limit breached; she doesn’t wince or wail or cry. She wears the hit so well. She’s smiling. A you-don’t-need-to-be-sorry smile, a you’re-forgiven smile: I’m strong, I’m good, I can take it. Whatever you need. Whatever you have to give. 
You blink and Karina reassembles, stitched up at the seams, beautiful and uninjured and intact.
“You want this,” you exhale, a wondrous revelation.
“Of course.” Karina’s shoulders rise as much as they can with her arms so tightly tied back. “You do, don’t you?” 
The panic recedes, and something else - something electric and brutal, visceral, intoxicating - takes its place instead. 
It’s the way she says it: rhetorical, all-knowing. As if she’s seen exactly what’s in your mind - what repulsive daydreams have settled right behind your ribcage, clawing to be set free - and she’s offering her own body in sacrifice. Saying here, put them here. 
So you do. 
She doesn’t even look surprised when you slap her again. 
“See?” Karina’s chin tips upwards in delicious, submissive invitation: eyes darkly pleased, pale skin a burning wildfire, curled mouth a beckoning. Like it’s been what she’s waiting for, all along. “There you are.” 
And when you’re finally able to catch your breath:
Oh, you think, in some exhilarating epiphany. Here I am. 
Every single reservation falls out the window. Karina’s smirk slants viciously and then you’ve got your hands all over her, on her shoulders and her tits and her hips and her throat and her face, thumb digging hard into her cheekbone. Any sort of gentle caution is gone when you’re getting on top of her and burying your cock deep inside the suffocating vice of her aching little cunt, half-drunk on the high mewling moans you’re forcing out of her, head swimming at the drenched audible sound of her pussy every time you fuck into her - at how tight she clenches down around your cock. Fuck it all, then, it’s not like it means anything - hurt me, she’d said, running through your head on loop; I want it so bad, I need it, hurt me - and so you do, wrapping a hand around her delicate neck and pressing down, slapping hard against her heaving tits, salivating over the marks that you leave. She doesn’t even struggle. Takes it like a good girl, an obedient girl: something meant to be hit and torn up and pulled apart. A hands-on art piece. A disassembling, made purely for audience consumption; a sign hung around her neck that says leave your mark, that’s the point. You’d been so naïve, thinking of being careful with her - like she’d ever even fucking want that-
“You like it like this.” Your voice sounds raw, almost unrecognizable; your fingers press into the base of her throat. “This is all you needed, huh? You just needed to be roughed up real hard.” Your hand trails up to grip a fistful of her hair, merciless. Karina shuts her eyes. “Like you’re just a slutty fucktoy-” 
Karina chokes out a small, wet gasp.
“Oh, baby.” You yank harder at her hair. “It’s okay to admit it.”
But in a way, she already is. Doesn’t fight against the restraints tying her wrists, doesn’t flinch at how rough you’re fucking her, doesn’t whine or blink back tears at the harsh graze of your thumbnail against her nipple. Like she’s a plaything, here in your bed for your pleasure alone. Like-
“Like you were just fucking made for this, yeah?” She comes undone so easily: cunt a wet sticky mess when you reach down to rub her clit, teeth pearly-white where they’re caught on her bottom lip - though nothing can hold back the anguished noise Karina lets out at your pace, the thick stretch of your cock, your palm smacking at her tits over and over. “Look at you. That face, these tits, this little fucking cunt-”
Like it’s her one and only purpose - to have all her fair skin turned searing red and bruised under someone else’s hands. Her cunt just begging to be split open and stuffed full, railed so hard she could break. It’s gotta be what she was created for. She’s more than mortal, so above the concept of imperfection; a nasty little fuckdoll of a girl, meant to be used hard and licked clean. She looks too irresistible all fucked-out and ruined. It has to be in her nature. Made for this, you keep telling her: to be fucked until she can’t walk. To be treated forever how you’re treating her now. 
Your ex-girlfriend couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not about power or control at all.
“You’d really just let me do anything to you, huh?” you murmur, awed, but you’re holding her throat too hard for her to reply. 
You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her. Rub at her clit until she clamps down and cums around you, until you can really get on top of her, force her to hold those huge tits together so you can fuck them. You can’t handle how tiny she is underneath you, her face and her mouth slack with lust, eyes glazed over entirely. She squeezes her tits around your cock. She’s hardly even human. It’s the best thing about her. 
“That’s how I know you’re a fucking whore.” Your grin feels wide and manic on your face. You’re gonna cum all over her - again. “None of this even matters.” 
And it’s only after - after you’ve painted her collarbone and chest creamy white and let up on her throat so she can fight for air; after you’ve groped her tits and grabbed her face after just to see your cum glistening all over her perfect slap-marred cheeks; after you’ve rolled off of her and you finally leave her alone - that Karina gives you a response. 
“No,” she says, hoarsely, staring up at the ceiling. “It really, really doesn’t.” 
-
Power just isn’t the right word for it. It’s something much more beautiful than that. 
Desire. You’re dozing off, halfway in a sleepy fantasy. You imagine rolling the word around in your mouth, using it in speeches, citing it as an obvious central theme. It’s about desire, you’d say, in interviews, at film festivals, patiently explaining your motivations to the masses. That irrational animal instinct. That innate human greediness. You’ll maybe even throw in some fun anecdote about how people in past relationships never agreed with you. It’s never been about power, though, you’d explain: how foolish, how crude. It’s about the ache of truly wanting something. Isn’t that so much more romantic?
So you’ll make a movie about this one day. So you tied Karina to the bed and slapped her hard and fucked her senseless. Actually, you picture yourself explaining, foggy and on verge of falling asleep: actually, it’s about hunger. Irrepressible, all-consuming hunger. That’s why I did this. That’s why I’ll keep doing it. You’re all like me; you get it. That makes sense, doesn’t it? 
And it will, to raucous, riotous applause.
Good. You’ll laugh so hard. You’re dreaming, now; you can’t tell if you’re talking about the sex or the hypothetical future movie. I’m glad you understand. Anyone would’ve done what I did. 
Because - honestly - what’s the point of starving yourself of something that’s right in front of you?
-
(Let’s pull back from your script for a second. Here’s a real story:
A few months back you were visiting a museum with one of your friends when you got into this conversation about performance art. He’d told you about a woman back in the seventies who walked into a gallery and laid out various objects and let the audience do whatever they wanted to her for six whole hours. Her as the artist, in title only; herself as the art. A free, untethered canvas. 
And what happened? you asked, morbidly curious. 
Your friend grimaced. What do you think happened? 
It was a rhetorical question. The performance had been a test of what the general public was capable of - a reflection of their moral compass, of what they’d do if left unchecked. The setup spoke for itself. You didn’t have to get all the gory details in order to understand. 
Seriously, though, your friend said, about the artist: I don’t know what’d compel someone to do something like that to themselves. He’d shaken his head, baffled. Like - I think it takes a deeply fucked up person to just give up their body like that. Like it doesn’t even matter to them. 
It’s strange. It’s an almost universally accepted fact that, at least on some level, artists are inclined to put pieces of themselves into the things they create. A memory; a feeling. Condensing twenty different emotions into a single acrylic painting, or a lyrical reenactment of heartbreak into a song - something personal and unique and lovely. Often inspired, sure, but yours. 
I think that’s what’s funny about it, you told your friend, before you realized that funny was a fucked up word to use here. There’s nothing personal about that. It’s so detached. It’s about the rest of the world, whatever they might make of her - it’s not about her at all. 
You were both quiet, thinking. Visualizing what it might’ve been like. To be there, one of many in the audience, watching this woman who had thrown herself to the wolves and asked to be ripped apart. 
She’s just - material for them to use, I guess, you said, after a moment. A blank page. 
Removing her own identity; becoming nothing, no one. A ghost. An empty vessel. A slab of clay, taking on the impression of everyone who’s ever touched her: the ridges of fingerprints, the half-moon cuts of nails, molding her into something new. Even if it took some force. Even if it hurt. 
Still, it’s what she’d asked for. 
You can’t imagine she’d ever expected anything else.)
-
There’s this fascinating complaint people have about films these days, you’ve found. It’s actually quite the phenomenon. You talk to your colleagues and scroll through social media and read comments on movie trailers trying to get a grasp on it all: market research. This isn’t realistic, people gripe. It’d never sound like that. She’d never look like that. This would never, ever happen - God, are you kidding? Who are they trying to fool? As if they’ve somehow missed the point of fiction - of a sweet, escapist fantasy. As if they’ve convinced themselves that the real world is better. 
Which is moronic, obviously. 
“So what’s the solution?” Karina asks.
Well, you’re no expert; it’s been a while since you’d finished your last movie.
“But you have an idea,” Karina interpets. She’s perched on the edge of your coffee table, nursing a new glass of ice. She’s watching you with her head at an angle, eyes shrewd. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me this.” 
As with most of her guesses about you, she’s right. 
“It’s all about the details,” you say, after a moment. “It humanizes a person. Having little bits and pieces about who they are - it makes them alive. Their likes, their dislikes. Embarrassing stories. Things that make them laugh. Diary entries, favorite foods - first loves, first heartbreaks. So on and so forth.” You’ve got one of Karina’s ankles between your hands; your thumb brushes against the bulbous protrusion of bone. “It’s what makes people real.” 
Karina’s mouth twists, sharp and strange; it takes a second for you to realize that she’s grinning. 
“Oh, right,” she says. “You want me to spill my guts to you.” She pushes her ankle further into your grip. Her legs are just like the rest of her: thin and pale, waifish. Like a nineties catwalk model. “That’s how you’re gonna make me real. In your movie.” 
You pull a face, letting her ankle slip from your hands. Spill her guts; what an ugly figure of speech. As if you’re doing something much more invasive and violent than just writing about her. 
“Basically,” you agree, anyway. “I mean, it helps that you’re already, you know - a real, whole, living person.” 
“Ugh,” says Karina, dry and amused. “Barely.” 
You wonder if she’s also thinking about this morning; you, stunned and staring at her cum-streaked hair, calling her unreal.
She’s got a point, in a way. There’s something slightly uncanny about her sitting in front of you, as if she’s been taken straight out of some wildly different scene - some spotlit stage, some movie set, some glossy high-budget existence - and haphazardly edited into your life. You reach out and press two fingers to the side of her neck, like they do on television if they think someone’s bleeding out. 
Karina tips her head to allow you access. Her pulse throbs hotly under your touch. 
“I don’t know,” you say, smiling at the swanlike line of her throat. “You seem pretty alive to me.” 
“Sure.” Her hair tickles your wrist. “But you want more.”
She says it like it’s this given - as if she’s always faced with people wanting more from her. You wouldn’t doubt it, little tease she is. You can picture her in motion so easily. Always running. Letting people pine and plead for more. 
“Yeah,” you say. It seems pointless to lie to her. “I want more.” 
Karina leans in closer. She reaches up and touches one of your knuckles with the pad of her thumb. Without makeup, you can see the shadows of dark circles underneath her eyes, but even those look painted-on, pre-planned; a study on the aesthetic allure of bruises. She lets her gaze drop to your mouth, then bites down on her bottom lip. Impish.
“Karina,” you say, grinning wider now. 
It’s one of those unspoken things: the translation of body language, the transcription of the tilt of her mouth. Then have me, she’s saying, almost certainly - like a swooning melodramatic heroine, throwing herself into your lap, wanting to be saved. You want more? You want me? I’m right here. I’m yours.
“Fine,” Karina purrs, and kisses you again, like sealing a contract. “Take it all.” 
-
You don’t fuck her again - not at first. There’s more than one way to take someone apart. 
Karina says she’s got a story for you and then she pulls out her phone. 
“This was back in high school,” she explains, scrolling back through her photo gallery. There don’t seem to be a lot of recent additions to it; you’d expected selfies, pictures of her with friends. There are more photos of food than anything: plates of pasta and donuts and burgers and pastries piled with whipped cream. It’s cute. It makes you laugh. “When I won prom queen.” 
You splutter. “When you what?” 
“What?” Karina gives you a bemused, sideways look. “Does that surprise you?” 
It floors you, actually. At first you can’t quite put your finger on why, but then you look at Karina again - at her intense dark eyes and pouty fuckdoll lips and the exaggerated pinup proportions of her body - and you realize you’re making that mistake writers often do: buying into archetypes. It just makes sense that she’d be some kind of brooding bad girl. Mysterious, promiscuous; in your creative vision she’s probably cutting classes and chainsmoking in the girls’ bathroom. A favorite of the rumor mill. A pretty little delinquent.
“Wow.” Karina makes a funny noise in the back of her throat when you tell her this. “No. I was - I did fine in school. Perfect attendance, almost. And I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes.” But she doesn’t look offended, either; you imagine people make these assumptions about her all the time. “The prom queen thing - it wasn’t my idea, though. My best friend did all the campaigning for me.” 
“That’s sweet.” You watch as she reaches the year she’s looking for. Flashes of her in a sparkly dress with her arms thrown around another girl - a tiny doe-eyed brunette - slide by. In one of them, Karina’s got her head tipped back, clearly mid-laugh; in another, she and the girl have their heads bent close together as if they’re trading secrets, unaware that they’re being photographed. “Well - I think it’s sweet.” 
Karina’s fingers stall. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 
“I’m just saying-” You shrug. “It’s a nice gesture if it’s something you wanted, I guess. Seems like a lot of attention, otherwise.” 
“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Yeah. It was - I didn’t get to go to junior prom, so it was kind of - this was - senior year. Senior prom.” Another pause. “Yeah. She did it to make me happy.”
“And did it?” She passes by pictures that fill up with more people: friends with big grins who stick close to her side, wrapping her up in an embrace. “Make you happy?” 
“Of course.” Karina’s thumb pauses on a video, the preview dark and unfocused. She says it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “She was my best friend. She always knew what I wanted. Hey, look at this.” 
The video’s of her in the back of someone’s car, prom queen tiara askew on her head, satiny sash falling off one shoulder. She’s yelling, laughing; the sound isn’t on, but her mouth’s wide open and her dark eyes are crinkled to half-moons, creased underneath heavy false lashes and glittery makeup that’s begun to smudge and fade. It makes her whole face look very soft. Young, too - cheeks full and flushed pink with excitement, hair blown-out and everywhere, glossed black. As if she’s having the time of her life. 
“How old were you here?” you ask, in awe. 
“Eighteen. Just turned, I think.” 
“You look-” Like a baby, you almost want to say. It’s true, though. Big brown eyes, scrunched little nose - grinning like the rest of the world hasn’t quite dug its claws into her yet. Skin unmarred and infant-smooth. “You look pretty.” 
Karina doesn’t look at you, but you can see the slight, entertained upturn of her lips. All the nasty things you’ve called her - all the irredeemable ways you’ve touched her - and now, inexplicably, you’re going for pretty. 
“Thanks,” she says, and clicks the volume up.
“Shut the fuck up,” baby Karina is saying, delightedly. Her voice sounds high, childish and carefree. “You’re so dumb. It wasn’t - it wasn’t even like that, I swear!” She flaps one hand in the air, her nails all short and painted the same rich deep maroon as her dress. “No - you’re just saying that because you’re jealous, you idiot, I know you - you just-”
The person behind the camera says something that you can’t quite make out. 
Baby Karina presses one hand to her sternum, pearl-clutching, and gasps. 
“I would never,” she admonishes - over-the-top like an actress from a movie - before she throws her head back and laughs. 
It’s a startling, wonderful laugh. A little-kid laugh. A mess of wild, unabashed giggles, hiccupy and sweet, so loud and infectious you can hear the other people in the car start cracking up with her; out of frame, someone reaches out to interlace their fingers with Karina’s, waving their joined hands until they smack against the car window and Karina only laughs harder. With her whole body, shoulders shaking and all. Streetlights flashing across her face, making her look sort of blurry and surreal, like something out of a painting. 
“Your laugh,” you find yourself saying, stunned. 
Karina’s touching the back of her neck, completely engrossed in the video. “My what?” 
You don’t laugh like that anymore. That’s what you mean to say. That scratchy, almost painful laugh that she’s been gracing you with since the moment you met her - there’s no trace of that in how baby Karina wriggles with laughter in the backseat of the car until her happy, breathless blush spreads to her neck and her chest. Head tipping back against the seat, like she’s all tuckered out. 
“Um,” you say, voice caught in your throat. 
On the screen, her eyes fall shut, lashes fluttering so delicately. 
You can’t do anything but stare. Brilliant, past-life, prom-queen Karina - grinning at nothing, and sleepy from a perfect night, and laughing as if she’ll exist as this version of herself forever. As if she just doesn’t know any better, yet. 
“You,” you start to say, again-
Karina shuts her phone off, and turns.
And you’re about to say something - something about the gnawing, uncertain feeling you get when you watch this former self of hers. It’s on the tip of your tongue. You don’t laugh like that. Something happened to you. For a moment the whole image just seems off - like the way people make posthumous holograms of pop stars, superimpose faces of long-dead actors on stunt doubles. A kind of intense wrongness. A murmured, uncomfortable: that’s not really you, is it? It can’t be. I barely recognize her. 
“What?” Karina asks. Her smile reveals her teeth. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 
Then reality hits you, all at once. 
“Sorry.” Your hand finds her thigh. You laugh because you’re being ridiculous - how would you know who she really is, anyway? “I was just thinking - I don’t know. Never mind.”
She seems to take that at face value. You like that about her. How she seems to trust so easily - going home with you, winding up in your bed, staying when you ask her to stay. Giving you whatever you want: her body, her story.
“So,” you say, eventually. “I can put in my movie that you totally peaked in high school, huh?” 
Karina snorts. “Yeah,” she says, playing along, and taps her dark phone screen with a clawed nail. “Say it was the last time I was happy.” She pulls a face, like the thought of it is just unspeakably pathetic. “That’s a tragedy if I’ve ever heard one.” 
“Shakespearean,” you agree, and let her clamber into your lap. “It’s perfect.” 
But you know she’s kidding. You’d like to think that you understand girls like her. They live in a different world than the rest of you - the kind of world where every person on earth looks at them and falls to their feet, falls madly in love. You’ll write about it one day; you’ll feel out the narrative for her, a curious exploration. That rose-tinted life she must flourish in, closed-off and flawless like a snow globe, her spinning and protected in the glass.
“Perfect,” echoes Karina, and kisses you - like she’s proving she really means it. 
That’s the reality, here. That’s it. This is all there is. 
-
Well, almost.
-
Karina lets you scroll through the rest of her photo gallery, front to back. You take the opportunity, because you’re greedy for as much as you can get. 
There’s a lot of photos that are just her, funnily enough - selfies posed in front of the same full-length mirror, over and over again, clad in unholy outfits. Swimsuits, sports bras and little running shorts, lingerie: shit that makes your mouth water, eyes lingering, groaning out loud as she laughs at you. But it’s also her in faded old t-shirts, holding the hem up to expose her stomach. Body angled to the side in girlish sundresses. Hair pulled up, showing off her neck, her gorgeously sharp collarbone - in makeup or out of it, stare intensely focused and sultry. 
“That’s hot,” you comment. “Self-obsessed as fuck, but hot.” 
Karina smiles - her tiny private-joke smile - and doesn’t say anything at all. 
There’s one video in particular that catches your eye. It’s recent, relatively - the date reads late December, last year. Less than a month ago. Christmastime. You click on it, curious. 
Karina’s immediately recognizable in it, black hair winding past her shoulders, drowning in a large black sweatshirt. She’s smiling, but it looks sort of tense and tired - bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in a while. She’s got both hands balled up into fists, held close and protective to her chest; her sharp chin rests on her pale knuckles. There’s a tiny smear of red across her mouth, lower lip bitten bloody. 
“You just got here,” she says. She’s looking at something behind the camera. “The first thing you wanna do is hear me sing?” She laughs once, scratchy and hoarse. “Why are you even filming this?” 
The answering strum of guitar strings, a pretty, perfect chord. An invitation, or a demand.
“You’re kidding.” Karina’s voice is flat.
Another chord - evidently not. 
“Wow,” says Karina. Her smile, out of nowhere, goes very soft at the edges. “You just do this because you know I can’t say no to you.”
“What?” you ask Karina now, laughing. “Is this - what is this? Do you - are you really going to sing?” 
And then - crazily enough - she does. 
“Oh,” you say out loud, adoring, and Karina turns her face into your shoulder. 
Her voice in the video is breathy, sweet. Shyly unpracticed, raspy from disuse, completely and utterly gorgeous; lids slipping shut and open again, laugh leaking into her melody line in lyrics about black eyes and kisses and wanting someone who’s just so, so bad for you. But what surprises you more than anything is the look that dawns on her blurry on-screen face - irises sparkling and smile bashful, hiding her mouth behind the sleeve of her sweatshirt, curled up with her knees to her chest. You see now that she’s wearing pajama pants, fuzzy and patterned with snowflakes. 
She looks radiantly pretty. She looks vulnerable. And not even in a sweaty, satiated, filthy post-fuck kind of way - actually, genuinely vulnerable. Soft and wide-eyed and tender.
Suddenly, you just can’t tear your gaze away. 
“Stop.” 
The song’s over. On-screen Karina’s fully grinning now. Porcelain-fragile, but undeniably happy, too. 
“I hate you,” she says. “Baby, I really do.” 
“You love me,” says the person behind the camera. “You’ll love me for the rest of your life and you know it.” 
And in the video - in vivid, fluid motion - Karina laughs. 
Whole-hearted, lovely. Familiar. For a moment, you swear she’s still that girl sitting in the backseat of a car with her prom queen tiara on, giggling free and uninhibited, unhurt, untouched. A month ago - less than that, even - looking like she’s coming back to life. 
That’s where the clip ends. 
It doesn’t change anything, if you actually think about it. It’s just another version of reality. A Karina from a whole other universe, laughing like a child, and so, so far away from whoever she is now. 
-
(Back between the lines of your script-
The stranger and the girl drink to get drunk and that’s about it. She reads the label of his wine; he makes fun of her for being a snob. She doesn’t really drink, she says at first, but he laughs like this is a challenge, and pours her a glass anyway. She flushes pink and fidgets around. She seems to shed hair like a cat and he thinks this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen, picking up thin black strands off of the arm of his couch, teasing her about girls and how they really like to leave their mark, huh?
Leave their mark, she repeats. There’s some trick of the lens here, some sort of strategic camera work - he’s in the forefront and she’s in the background, and she looks so much smaller than him. Why do you say that? 
He still had his ex-girlfriend’s perfume in his cabinet. He probably still has some of her clothes in his closet. Not out of any particular emotional attachment, but sometimes this is just the way things are: when you spend years intertwining your whole existence with someone else’s, it’s hard to rid yourself of that connection. You’ve grown into each other’s spaces, tangling limbs and heart lines, putting down roots. It’s gonna take a little force to get them out. 
They’re just so much, he says, gesticulating with his hands. And they affect everything in your life, like a fucking infection. And then it doesn’t work out, and you - he makes a wide, sweeping motion here, attempting to encompass the wreckage. You have to fix everything they broke. Purge them from your system and all that. It’s so fucked up. 
It’s like this, he means to say - you love someone and then they leave you behind and you’re left staring at the blown-up decimated crater that used to be your life together. You love someone and they don’t love you back and all you have now is the debris.
They’re both drunk. There should be music here and there isn’t. It’s only eerie, too-still silence, suffocating the both of them with every passing second. 
Well, she says, laughing, and takes another sip. You and I can agree on that, at least.)
-
It happens like this:
There’s a monologue you want to write. 
You tell Karina this after you’re finally fucking her again, when she’s balanced on the edge of your glass coffee table with her legs spread and your mouth slick with her cum. Well - not after, technically. She’s between orgasms and you have your thumb on her clit, tracking the expression on her face, the split-second moment where she comes apart. It’s then when you realize so badly that you want to write some great speech for your heroine - something about the sweat beading on Karina’s midriff and her tits that you can’t stop touching and the jerky movements of her hips, trying to get your tongue back on her clit, panting and delightfully desperate. Something about desire. 
“Desire,” repeats Karina, voice halfway into a raspy, worked-up moan. 
“Yeah.” You’ve replaced your mouth with your fingers, fucking up into the obscene tight heat of her cunt. She’s trembling, dripping everywhere; she’s the very picture of what it means to want, probably. “But I just can’t figure it out.” 
Karina laughs roughly, and then she cums. 
“Is that funny?” you ask her, after, when you’re wiping your wet mouth with your wrist and she’s sucking on your glistening fingers, licking the taste of her own cunt off your skin. Her eyes big, lips all full and pink - slutty angel on her pedestal, perched above you. “Me writing about desire?” 
Karina lets your fingers free with a loud pop. She’s still clutching your hand close to her mouth, thumb dragging through the sticky gleam of her spit. “No,” she says, eyes distant. “It just reminded me of something. There’s this Anne Carson quote, about men and desire…” She shakes her head. Presses her lips once to your fingertips in a small, startlingly sweet kiss. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me more.” 
There isn’t much to tell, truthfully. Except that you’ve got this love for movie lines that are just so utterly quotable - things that make their way into the pop culture consciousness. That’s the kind of work you want to be doing: creating something that has an impact, something that’ll exist long after you’re gone. Everlasting. If you had to pull for an example, you’d say-
“You ever seen Closer?” 
“Yeah.” Karina drops your elbow into her lap. “Oh, I get it. He tastes like you but sweeter. Lying’s the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - et cetera.” She hums the melody line. “So you want an early 2000s pop-punk band to make a song about your movie? Ambitious.” 
“More or less,” you say as she shimmies her shirt back down, hem falling back over her midriff. “But like I said, I’m kind of stuck.”
Karina rolls her neck. Her hair is everywhere, sweet-smelling; snapped-off strands decorate your table, looking like cracks in the glass. 
“Any suggestions?” you ask, thumb skimming along the pale bruised inside of her thigh. 
She smiles, mischievous. “Maybe.” 
That’s how you both end up curled on your couch together with your laptop in front of you, Karina’s eyes glued to the movie playing on the screen, watching as the four main characters fuck and flirt and cheat on each other and scream at the top of their lungs. Melodramatic dialogue. How do you feel about him using your life? You’re lying; I’ve been you. This will hurt, which Karina laughs at - as if announcing the pain will make it better, playacting at exoneration. 
It’s also - predictably - how you end up fucking again. You barely make it an hour in, and then-
“Hey.” Karina’s breath tickles your ear. She’s already seconds from climbing in your lap already; her thigh is hooked over yours, bare and inviting. “Are you inspired?” 
You’re swallowing back a grin. “Sure.” 
“Oh. Great.” She’s no actress herself, clearly. She couldn’t be subtle if she tried. “Do you wanna be more inspired?” 
And - whatever. It’s a movie about sex. If anything, at least you’re sticking to the theme. 
The dialogue plays in the background as Karina rocks her hips down on your lap - you can feel how wet she is again, like she never stops wanting to be fucked. You’re telling her something about how she’s the most insatiable girl you’ve ever met; the sound of the film saturates the room, setting the tone like it knows its purpose. How? How does it work? How do you do this to someone? This big, infidelity-ridden confrontation. Did you phone her? Beg her to come back? Asking him why he falls for another girl, getting this ridiculous answer - it’s because she doesn’t need me.
“Huh.” You smile into the curve of Karina’s neck, already palming her ass. “That one’s funny.”
“Is it funny?” Karina’s sharp jaw brushes against your cheekbone. Her eyes are so dark, shadowed by her long lashes. “I think it’s pretty realistic. People don’t like needy girls. It’s a burden to be loved so hard.” Her tongue darts across her teeth; her smile’s somewhat caustic. “Too much to handle, I guess.” 
“What are you talking about?” This strikes you as fairly fucking ridiculous, too. “What men have you met who don’t like needy girls?” 
Karina just laughs and leans in for another kiss. 
It’s easy to let the rest of the film float away in the background, the lines coming disjointed, unconnected. A spoken-word soundtrack, tone perfuming the air: the angst and pain and eroticism seeping into your clothing. Once in a while you’ll pull back from kissing Karina’s neck or tits or mouth and see a thoughtful little quirk to her mouth. Like she’s genuinely listening, even as you’re taking off her shirt, slipping a hand back between her legs. Where will you go? Disappear. I can’t still see you - if I see you, I’ll never leave you. I amuse you, but I bore you. 
“I bet you’ve never felt that,” you say, half into the silk of her hair. 
Karina pauses. Her shirt’s on the floor; she’s gloriously naked on top of you. “Felt what?” 
“I amuse you, but I bore you,” you recite. You already sound sort of fuck-drunk, far gone. “You’re the farthest thing from boring.”
Back in the movie, the female lead sobs into her fists. Karina studies you, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck. You try to imagine it - her as one of those heartsick heroines, crying herself to pieces, begging a man not to leave her - but you draw an utter blank. Some people just aren’t breakable in that way. 
“You’d be surprised,” Karina says, after a moment. “People get bored of me all the time.”
“Oh, please.” Even when she’s the one top of you, you can’t help feeling so completely in control. It’s gotta be the look in her eyes, dying to be obedient. “I bet you have lots of ways of keeping guys interested in you.” You smack her ass hard just to make a mark. “I bet you let them fuck you however they want.” 
“Exactly,” Karina agrees, without missing a beat. She moves in close until your noses bump together. Lets her voice go all smoky and suggestive. “Wherever they want, too.” 
You open your mouth - probably about to say something very rude about what a dirty whore she is and how you should’ve realized it the second you saw her; I knew it, I know you - but then your hands slip lower and Karina presses her lips to yours and licks into your mouth, over your teeth, making you swallow your words. Filling you up until there’s nothing but her and the movie, playing on.
I think I’ll be happier with her. 
You won’t. You’ll miss me. No one will ever love you as much as I do. Why isn’t love enough? 
“Romantic, right?” murmurs Karina, sweet against your tongue. 
“Shut up,” you say, and grab her by the hair, tugging her off your lap as you stand. “Bedroom. Now.” 
Later, you’ll take the time to consider the different ways filmmakers illustrate a power dynamic - it’s playing on your laptop screen right now. The heroine’s sitting on the arm of the couch, clutching desperately at the hero’s jacket. Gorgeously emotional and pleading for another chance, her tiny chin tilted up, eyes so large and watery. Made fragile and fearful by everyone: the protagonist, the narrative, the director, the audience beyond. By herself, even. It’s a stylistic choice - she wants to look that pathetic.
And you-
Well, you’ve got Karina’s long hair wrapped up in your fist, tits bouncing as she stumbles to her feet, ankle knocking hard and horribly loud against the leg of your table. Cute little ass all red from your hand. Thighs shimmering from how drenched she is, cunt dripping from how you’ve treated her. She hasn’t managed to work her mouth into a trademark smirk fast enough: when she looks at you over her shoulder, her eyes are abyss-dark and bottomless, crease between her brows, lips parted in pained surprise. 
The definition of pathetic, too - but that’s exactly the point. She’s just so much more fuckable like that. 
“Ouch,” you say, touching her hurt ankle with the side of your foot. 
“It’s fine.” Karina’s skin feels clammy and cold. Her smirk’s intact now, camera-ready. “I’ve been through worse.” 
Her ankle throbs under the pressure of your touch; you still haven’t let up on her hair. You’ll go through worse, too, you think of telling her: a sly comment about how rough you’re about to fuck her, what vicious marks you’re about to leave. How you’re gonna hurt her exactly like she asked you to. 
You don’t say a thing.
She must already know all of that, anyway.
-
So, Karina’s not breakable like the helpless, weepy, soft-hearted girls in the movies - but that’s alright. She’s breakable in much more enticing ways.
Case in point:
“Oh, get real, baby. Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”
Well, breaking someone down doesn’t really get better than this.
It’s all a scene of your own making, a perfect pre-arrangement. You on your bed, Karina limp and bent belly-down over your lap - you in control and Karina as the most impressive toy you’ve ever gotten your hands on, creamy ass and needy cunt and skin that turns bruises to artwork. You’re goading her and failing - trying to get her to just admit to what she is, what a filthy slut, what a nasty eager fuckdoll - but it’s hard to get a response when even breathing seems to be a chore for her right now. Every noise out of her mouth is nothing but a gasping, choked-out whimper. Her face is buried in her forearm, hidden. And through the shine of lube dribbling down your hand and her ass and into the sticky wetness of her cunt, you’ve got two fingers stretching out her little asshole - and you’re just getting started.
“I know you fucking need this.” Your other hand slides up her back, slips to tangle in her hair. “You’re just too good at it.” You pull hard, wrenching her head from the crook of her elbow. “Too good at being an obedient fucking whore for me, huh?”
Karina’s whole body stiffens when you fuck your fingers deeper, as if tugged taut on a string: the flex of her feet in the air, shoulder blades straining, neck craned back almost painfully. You pull harder. It’s a buzz at the base of your skull, live-wire thrilling: the knowledge that you can yank her into whatever position you want - fuck her anywhere, work her ass open with your cock, fill her up with cum - and she’s just going to have to take it. Like she’s this pliant, powerless thing. Like she’s yours. 
Your self-satisfaction seeps right into your voice. “Answer me.” 
You hear Karina gulp down a breath. “I,” Karina mumbles, but she can’t do anything but babble. “I - fuck-” All teeth-clenching nonsense; she shoots a baleful glance over her shoulder, desperation clawing its way into every word. “Please-”
Your fingers pause. “You want more?” 
Her cheeks are splotchy and pink; you swear there are tears wobbling in those big dark eyes. The heavy arousal in your stomach turns to violent hunger, as though your mouth could start watering at any second. You can’t help it. The thought of seeing her cry is fucking exhilirating. “You - oh-” 
“Answer me. You want my cock?” You’re waiting for the breaking point. “You want me to really fuck your ass?” 
“Fuck-” 
But that’s not a proper reply and Karina knows it, so she doesn’t protest when you pull your glistening fingers out of her and smack your palm hard across her ass. Once, then twice, and then you just don’t stop. She yelps like a hurt animal - trembles uncontrollably, her thighs and her shoulders and her quivering bottom lip - and makes a sound in the back of her throat that might be a sob, but she still lets you hit her: gives into the harsh crack of skin on skin, over and over again. Listens as you tell her that she deserves this, that she wanted this, that you’re making her into a good girl and this is what good girls get when they’re too cock-hungry to follow orders or answer a fucking question, you know that - you know I’m this rough for a reason. It should hurt. It’s so much more fun that way.  
“I’ve been too fucking nice to you,” you mutter, teeth gritted in an effort to hide your grin - as if you even need to. It’s obvious how much you enjoy this. It’s the point. “That’s the problem with girls like you - you never learned your fucking place, huh? Never really been punished for anything?”
Karina mumbles out something unintelligible, slurring from her drooling mouth to the sheets.
“Yeah.” Your hand comes down again - she flinches just before her body goes slack. “That’s what I thought.” 
And after you’ve spanked her so hard that her fair skin is ravaged and raised with goosebumps along the slope of her back - her whole body in revolt - you finally, finally stop. 
Karina doesn’t budge except to breathe, and even that releases shallow, unsteady. You read it all in the shaky lift and fall of her thin shoulders, her hands in white-knuckled fists, her face pressed to your sheets and hidden - her hair coats everything, all ink, all words written but left unsaid. She shivers beneath your fingers. Her cunt’s dripping all over your lap. She’s a masterpiece. She’s a wreck. 
You’re filled up with thick, swollen pride. “Karina.” 
Karina. Your own personal creation, transformed under your touch. Might as well have your name carved into her, too. A brand right across her back, slicing through tissue, scarring to seal her fate - this is who you fucking belong to. 
“Poor baby.” You follow the sharp ridges of her spine, tracking notches, keeping a tally: counting how many times you’ll hit her, how many days she’ll stay in your bed. How many movies she’ll let you make out of her, being your brilliant muse for decades. “It’s painful when you don’t listen to me, huh?”
But then - inexplicably - you think of her bruising ankle. Her twist of a smirk, detached and humorless. I’ve been through worse. 
You’re abruptly glad you can’t see the look on her face. 
“Come on, sweet girl.” You dig the heel of your palm into her lower back, half a warning. “Pull it together.” 
Between the strands of glossy hair tumbling over Karina’s skin and your sheets, you spot a reddish mark on the back of her neck. Like the impression of a thumbprint, small and round. Blurry enough in the dim light that your brain starts conjuring up strange theories; an old wound, maybe. A birthmark or a burn, a childhood injury.
You graze her shoulder blades with your fingertips, exploratory. She feels so small draped over you like this, a tiny wet wisp of a girl. A doll. 
She still hasn’t moved.
“Karina.”
Nothing.
“Karina,” you say again, suddenly uneasy. Your hand stops. “Are you-”
For a few terrible seconds, you can’t even hear her breathing. 
But then Karina shifts. Slow, sensual, deliberate. Pushing herself up off your lap, arching her back, the slick pucker of her asshole obscene from where you fucked it open with your fingers. Her bruised knees dig into your mattress as she straightens up, and her gorgeous pale face seems to glow in the midday light - heavy dark eyes, bitten-pink mouth, black hair curtaining her cheeks like a frame to a portrait.
“You,” you start to say, feeling suddenly like you’re looking at her for the first time. 
“I’m really sorry,” Karina murmurs.
She doesn’t look close to tears at all. She’s so unfazed, as if having her ass spanked punishingly raw is something that happens to a girl like her on the daily. A run-of-the-mill occurrence - a consequence of having a body like that, made to be brutalized. She’s already reaching towards the nightstand for the lube. 
“I just wanted it so bad I couldn’t think straight,” Karina tells you, with erotic-film certainty - reciting all the lines that’ll make her seem the most insatiably slutty. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her lips form a pout; she leans down to press them to the tip of your cock, all sweet and demure, like she thinks she needs to convince you. Eyes flicking up at you through her thick lashes, molten-hot. “I should’ve listened.” It’s only a breath, warm and torturous. “I deserved that, I know.” 
Your hand winds tight in her hair. You want to force your cock down her pretty throat, make her gag and choke over her simpering apologies, spitting up your cum until it trickles down her chin, her tits, her tummy. Both a game and a power play: prove how sorry you are. 
Karina pulls back before you can, and holds up the lube. 
“Babe,” she says, the term of endearment almost a singsong - a lilting reminder. “I thought you wanted to really fuck me now.” 
“Uh-huh.” Her tits heave as she moves, crawling closer, offering herself up. “And I always get what I want, right?” 
You feel drunk with power. You forget that this isn’t supposed to be about power. You watch as Karina coats her palm with lube and pumps your cock, her fingers slick and hot, her veins starkly blue at her delicate wrists. Expression delighted at how hard you are, pink little tongue poking out between her teeth - seduction down to an art form, meticulously calculated. 
“With me?” Her smile burns. “Obviously.” 
You pull her in by the neck to kiss the smirk off her mouth. 
It’s interesting. There’s this other thing regular critics and moviegoers have been saying about films these days: sex scenes need to have a purpose. Some sort of coherent motivation. Strip your lead actress down to nothing and get her keening and moaning and you’ve got to explain it away somehow. It forwards the plot, you could insist, pitching it to producers and directors. It does something for the character dynamics. It’ll draw in just the right audience, the ones dying to see their favorite celebrity debauched and getting dirty on-screen - they’ll see it over and over just to get a taste. Isn’t that enough? To satisfy the masses? Isn’t that why we’re all here?
Because otherwise all people are staring at is a play at pornography: useless half-convincing make-believe. The heroine can writhe and whine and arch her back all she wants. Everyone knows she doesn’t feel anything. 
“Tell me the truth.” 
Oh, if you two were a movie - you don’t know how anyone could justify a sex scene quite like this. 
It doesn’t matter what artsy angle you take. It all comes down to the same unforgivable details: Karina face-down ass-up on your bed, the perfect bowed curve of her spine, the depraved wide stretch of her asshole around your cock - the sweat shining along her shoulder blades, the hard smack of your palm against the red raw skin of her ass, your other hand at the crown of her skull with your fingers wrapped entirely in her tangled hair - her cunt fucking ruining your sheets, wet all the way down her thighs, each brutal shift of your hips sending her little body into full-blown shudders-
“Tell me that you fucking love it.” Your hand slips lower until you’ve got her pinned down by the back of the neck, fingers pushing down: a grip she couldn’t escape even if she wanted to. “Whoring out your slutty little ass like this for a stranger. Getting on your hands and knees for me just because you’re so fucking needy for cock, baby - don’t even try to deny it, you’re so wet, nasty fucking girl-”
You just can’t stop yourself. It’s so easy. She really is so fucking pathetic. Too fragile to get free - too easily manipulated and manhandled. Trembling and drenched and giving way as you make room inside her, forcing space. She’s just so tight - it’s godless, how you make your cock fit in her lube-slicked asshole, how she moans like a bona fide bitch in heat over it: needing faster, needing harder, needing more. Cheek pink and pressed hard to your mattress, sharp nails digging into the sheets rough enough to tear through the fabric. Giving herself up to be fucked cruelly and stupid and senseless. 
Like she’s a real-
“Natural fucking cockslut, huh?” 
Look, seriously - you can’t be held accountable for the things you say to her here. 
Because when you say shit like you’d just let me do anything - like you’d let me fucking tie you up and keep you here forever, be an eager fucking cumdump for me whenever I want you, I know it, I know you - that’s just the moment talking. The circumstances. The pretty arch of her back and the drooling wetness of her cunt and the indecent tightness of her ass, conspiring to make you lose your mind mid-fuck - that’s the whole reason you even tell her any of it. You think you’re good for anything else? Right at her ear, your body covering hers, your cock buried deep. You’re not. Just made to get this slutty ass fucked open, and your mouth, and your cunt - this is all anyone’s ever gonna want from you and you know it - better get used to it now, baby. This is all you got. This is all you are. 
It’s Karina’s fault, really. She just takes it - all of it. She doesn’t even try to fight it. 
“But that’s okay,” you murmur, as she gasps and squirms and cries out like you’re killing her. “I’m still gonna make you cum.” 
And with your cock filling her ass and your hand between her legs, slapping hard at her sopping cunt until she can’t do anything but collapse - shaking, shattered - her whimpers fucked-out and drool-soaked and bleeding into one big nonsensical mess, everything about her used and ruined-
“You’re mine,” you tell her, laughing as she falls apart. “You get that? You’re mine.” 
-then, you do.
When it’s all over, Karina rolls over to face the wall, breathing hard. She’s slick everywhere, sweat and saliva and lube, your creamy cum dripping out of her well-fucked asshole and trickling down her thigh. You trace her lower back and grin at the way her skin seems to give into you, turning pink with a press of your fingertips. You’ve come to realize you adore her like this, the fugue state after you fuck her: utterly dead to the world. 
Like she could become a permanent fixture in your bed. Too tired to move. Too tired to ever leave. 
“Mine,” you say again, softer.
Karina doesn’t argue. 
It’s basically all the confirmation you need. 
-
So, really, if you two were a movie-
It goes like this: life can imitate art, too. It happens all the time. The line between fiction and reality blurs together until it’s indistinguishable - until you can’t tell where the fantasy ends, or if it ever did at all. 
-
(It goes like this: the heroine smiles sleepily and tells the hero he’s the best she’s ever had. You’ve seen this film before. The movie stars with their fake on-screen fucks might not feel a damn thing, but at least it’s still fun to pretend.)
-
Also, the mark you saw on the back of her neck isn’t actually what you thought it was. 
“It’s a tattoo,” you realize out loud, drowsily awed, brushing her hair away so you can get a better look. You’re both tuckered out, an inevitability when you fuck like you do; you’re seconds from dozing off. Karina’s looking away from you, on her side to escape the soreness of her ass, sheets loose across her chest. She lets you touch her wherever. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that before.” 
“You don’t know me,” mumbles Karina, half into your pillow. “It’s not your job to notice anything about me.” 
The tattoo’s crimson-red, all delicate linework. It really does look like it hurts: like someone painstakingly cut the shape into her skin. It’s of a heart, rendered in anatomical detail - valves and ventricles and arteries. It’s beautiful, you realize belatedly. Bright instead of faded, and obviously cared for. Lovely. 
The only permanent stain on her perfect body. You press your thumb against the ink, fascinated. 
“What does it mean?” you ask, but Karina’s already fallen asleep. 
-
(In your script, the girl and the stranger watch some gory crime show, except they don’t pay very close attention and he tugs her into his lap and makes her ride his thigh. The episode they’ve got on is about a serial killer who murders so-called sinners - liars, adulterers, the like. Slaughters them like sacrifices, cutting their throats with vicious efficiency. Fake blood drenches the screen with every crime scene: a form of fucked-up baptism, a psuedo-religious cleansing. 
The girl’s putting on an equally decent show on top of the stranger: head thrown back, eyelids fluttering, high-pitched little moans. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder and keeps watching the TV.
Hey, he says, a murmur against her skin, a close-up on his mouth. You’re a sinner, right?
She’s got her hands on his shoulders, hips rolling. Sure am. 
How do you think this guy would kill you? 
He thinks this’ll shock her, but she doesn’t even pause. Like he kills all the rest, she says. Like an animal.
I think he’d be more careful with you, the stranger muses. You’re too gorgeous. He’d have to use, like - a scalpel, or something. Something cleaner. Something that’d keep you intact. 
It’s no use. Nothing he says seems to scare her. Her eyes are far-off, almost glazed in recollection. Like she’s thought about it too - her own untimely end. Her own vivisection, skin flayed and organs visible, viscera and bone. There, hold the shot: now the audience can consider it with her, ponder all the ways she could be torn apart, all the repulsive things they could do with her desiccated body. All the ways flesh can warp under a human touch: the blue-black yellow-green purpling of bruises, a whole palette on one tiny girl. There’s value in that, isn’t there? There’s something intimately, incomparably beautiful in suffering. There’s art. 
Isn’t that why everyone’s watching? 
I get it, the girl says, still soaking his thigh, smiling as if it’s an inside joke between them. You want me dead. That’s been obvious since the moment you met me. 
I don’t want you dead, he says, and grabs her by the jaw. I just want to fuck you. 
Okay, she says, uncaring, like there’s barely a difference. Fine. Whatever you want. 
They don’t turn the TV off. They let the characters scream and bleed out in the background; he fucks her like she’s got a death wish. It’s funny - he expects her to get louder the harder he fucks her, ruthlessly working over the tight clench of her cunt - but she keeps getting less and less responsive, as if he’s pushing her little body into some sort of trance: expression vacant and blank, body limp and lifeless, mouth open and speechless. It makes him angry. Give me something, he’s saying, frustrated, clawing at her hair: baby, it’s not fair, it’s no fun like this. The on-screen shrieks aren’t enough - he wants it from her. Actually, he keeps saying he needs it - as if fulfilling desire is on the same level as food or air, as if he’ll drop dead in seconds if he doesn’t get her sobbing. He gets his overlarge hands on her face and starts contorting it, pushing her mouth open, her eyes wider, his fingers down her throat until she spits and gags and chokes. Oh, the audience will love this one: it’s reminiscent of those filthy exploitation films with their cult followings, so cleverly referential. Look at her pathetic and pinned down. Look at her helpless and struggling. Think of your favorite on-screen murder scenes, and then think of this.
Anything I want, the stranger reminds her, yanking back her hair as she drools down his wrist. You asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything I want. 
Except now the girl can’t say anything at all. 
This moment will start rumors, invite horrified scandal the same way some purposefully marketed horror movies are passed off as snuff films - that really went down, they really died like that. This scene’ll get a similar response. Did he actually fuck her? Did he actually hurt her? Did everyone - the writer, the director, the crew, the captive audience - actually just stand by and let that happen? 
Sure. Or she might just be a really, really good actress.
There. The stranger’s murmuring to her now, watching her manufactured expression, watching the tears fill her eyes. There you go. There’s my girl. And she is his, she really is - transformed into something all beautiful and new under his clumsy fingertips, molded right into art. The camera will zoom in close on her gorgeous, cadaverous face, a perverse little gift for the audience: here, have this, take a look. She’s all yours now. 
There’s something to be said here about the manmade link between sex and violence - inescapable, brutal, primeval; bodies in all shades of red - but he forgets it the second he touches her, and she’s being fucked too hard to remember.
Maybe they’ll get to it next time.) 
-
AND WE'RE BACK!!!!!!!!!!! <33333
all my luv ever to @capslocked @worldsover @passingnotions @braaan for beta reading my dumbass shenanigans and also for being the best ever I LOVE U!!!!!! AND ANYONE WHO IS READING THIS I LOVE YALL TOO.................. PART 2 COMING SOON!!!!!!!!!!!
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hyewka · 2 months
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—what a loser! | c.bg
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୨୧ synopsis. hearing rumours of your sex life travel around your campus for the first time has you standing in front of the very person that you’re convinced is responsible. your secret fuck buddy.
୨୧ warnings. stoner!gyu, bratty sub!beomgyu, mean femdom, humiliation kink, VERY public, hair pulling, hate sex kind of, cunnilingus, use of pet, fuck buddies, reader has a priest dad, bit of a toxic dynamic
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“Why’re you here?” he mumbles casting his eyes down to his feet as he idly skates around, not paying you even a little bit of eye contact or actual acknowledgement.
“Can we talk somewhere else? More private?”
He ignores you.
You huff, rolling your eyes, adjusting the bag on your shoulder. The sun had already set, there were even less people out—no one was skating around at this hour but Beomgyu. “Why—" you take a breath, already feeling yourself get emotional and angry, “Why did you go around telling people about us?”
There’s a few reasons circling your head. Attention, bragging rights—attention was a big one but you hoped, no, a part of you believes it was an accident. That he let the information slip from his lips when he was drunk, or out of his right mind. But with the way he’s acting, it’s getting harder to hold on to the belief that Beomgyu was misunderstood and not just a fucking asshole.
Too much time goes by with silence and you think hes blatantly ignoring you again, but then he halts his skating, taking the time to run a hand through his hair. Hair that you’ve regretfully played with days on end, twirling strands around your finger, giggling as if the foundation you’ve built your relationship on wasn’t such a fragile fire that could be snuffed out in seconds if not the tiniest bit careful.
Look where you are now.
“Dunno, ‘cuz I can.”
His eyes are on you, bangs parted, looking straight at you. You can’t get it out of your mind, how the ends of his lips twitched up as he said that. Bitch. Fucking bitch.
He finds this amusing. A game. Your reputation was a game to him. Of course it is. He never took anything serious, not his career, not his relationships, not his future—he never cared.
Your nostrils flare as you stomp large strides towards him, charging and shoving his chest, having him stumble backwards off his board, dryly laughing. “The goody two shoes about to commit an assault?”
“Oh fuck off, you wouldn’t dare try suing me. God, I hate you so much. You’re such a—such a fucking loser!” you yell.
That wiped off the cocky demeanour.
“Here’s some two cents for you, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about whatever this is between us. I really couldn’t. But you—” your face gets heated up, pointing a finger at him. “You will never find anything better than what I gave you. And you’re going to live with that.”
He scoffs like he’s unbothered but it’s so clear with the way he clenches his jaw afterwards he’s pissed—it hit a spot. Good. Good, let him be hurt.
“What do you even—what did you gain by telling everybody my sex life? Having people call me a slut? Some sick pleasure from being superior to me for once? Attention? Huh? Why’re you acting out now?” Your eyes are narrowed as they implore answers out of him, searching his face and eyes, anything, anything that you can read from his unbearable silence.
“Yeah.”
You blink confused. “What?”
“Yeah, I wanted the attention. Happy now?” He walks to shoulder you but you let out a scoff, holding him back by his arm and pushing him in front of you again.
“You can’t for one second act like a man can you? You just run away from everything!” you feel like you could rip out your hair with how frustrating hes being.
“If you’re just going to stand there and insult me like a bitch I might as well just go and do something fucking productive.” he spits.
Your cheeks heat up and you think for the first time you understand the phrase of seeing red. Hes been poking and poking and poking with his nonchalance then later smugness then going onto just straight up disrespect—he was really pushing you. So he should’ve expected the hand that goes to strike him against his face—your chest rising up and down, brows furrowed deeply.
A faint red hand print blooms across his cheek, and his jaw falls slack, eyes blown out and wide. You suddenly grab him by the back of his hair, no doubt burning his scalp with the way he lets out a loud hiss. “I fucking hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
You’re so close to his face and everything about the way he’s looking at you gives you the chills. You hate him. You do. He’s insane, he’s selfish, he’s rude, he’s—
A shaky lopsided grin still manages to break from his face, “No you don’t.”
And that was your last straw.
The addictive nature about Beomgyu is what kept you coming back over and over again—he never lead, he just let you…take him. And sometimes, at a point of your life where you feel like everythings being controlled for you, not having the choice to make the decisions you like, this somewhat served as an outlet.
That’s the more…reasonable explanation.
The other explanation is simple. He’s so fucking sexy.
The way he still melts into a kiss so harsh and mean, attempting to cup your cheeks, but immedietely dropping it when he feels your disapporval, his whimpers already picking up, not taking any incentive to breathe as if this kiss was enough to keep him alive; it’s those little things that have you up in the middle of the night thinking about him. Him.
Beomgyu, the stereotypical bad-boy stoner hipster outcast—the antithesis of everything present in your picture perfect life—he keeps you up at night. The mix of weed and his hilariously bad attempt at covering it with febreeze and cologne wafts your scent, it overwhelms you, but you still can’t get enough. Everything annoying about him disappears when he’s touching you.
“Why? Why do you keep doing this?” you say, finally being able to pull away from him—only after you had jerked on his hair harsher.
His lips are swollen, red and glistening—he looks pretty like this. He really does. But those lips always end up saying something to piss you off. “Keep doing what? Letting everyone know how you really are? Not really the good girl you pretend to be, huh.”
You don’t know if he’s goading you on purpose because he likes it rough, or if he’s just being an asshole in general. It doesn’t matter. If he’s going to act like a brat, he’ll get treated like one.
Your knuckles had turned white with how hard you were gripping his hair so it feels relieving when you finally let it go. He tries to lean in to chase after your lips again, but you have your hands on his chest to stop him.
The flash of panic in his eyes when you step back from him is hilarious, it really is. It tells you everything you need to know. He wants you. He really wants you. He doesn’t care if you hit him or ruin his life, he wants you.
If his next words are any indication. “Hey hey what are you doing? Where are you going?”
You walk to sit on a step of the stairs. “Question Choi Beomgyu. Do you think I’m a slut? Is that why you thought you had the audacity? Surely because otherwise, if you respected me, you wouldn’t have spread rumors about me.”
He huffs out a laugh, the bigger reaction you’ve gotten out of him so far. He also walks to get closer to you. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You haven’t even come up with one single reason that would paint me in a better light. You really do see me as a fucking douchebag loser.” He’s clearly getting emotional with the way his voice gets higher pitched, the nonchalant front cracking, his lips slightly trembling.
“Because that’s what you are. Douchebag. Loser. You’re. A. Loser. Choi Beomgyu.”
You can see his fists clench at his sides, tight lipped. If you knew any better, you think he might’ve just started crying, but you’re not interested in tears. You angle your feet to point to the ground, “On your knees.”
He only hesitates for a second, he only stands there staring at you for a second, only a second before he crumbles and does as you say, getting on his knees in front of you, between your legs. “Closer.”
“But-"
“But what?” Your skirts already half way ridden up and you stare him down, keeping your eye contact intense.
“We’re in p-public. Anyone can see.”
You know hes blushing when you see the tips of his ears peek out, bright red. Aw, he’s nervous? Embarrassed? Shy?
“You’re never seeing me after this Choi. Make of it what you can or piss off.”
His eyes widen comically at that. “What? What does that mean? Are you leaving me?”
You can’t decipher or understand why exactly hes so surprised but you shake it off, you don’t want your good time to be spoiled. Not when your underwears’ already sticking to your pussy seeing him on his knees, on the ground, with his ripped baggy jeans, no doubt a pavement burn getting to him. “Are you going to eat me out or should I get up and leave?”
He shakes his head vehemently, hands on your knees spreading your legs. “Sorry, ‘m sorry. Don’t leave. Gonna make you feel good, promise.”
He’s already rambling like he’s dumbed out, like he’s about to be a goner. But he’s still hesitant in his actions and you groan, throwing your head back. “What the fuck Beomgyu?”
A pout rests on his lips, “I—…I don’t want anyone seeing you..”
You think he’s giving a fuck for your decency, you think its about you for once. But then another thought pops up in your head and your lips twitch. It’s not for you. It’s for him. He doesn’t want any possible pedestrian to see what only him so far has been able to see.
This isn’t worth it.
You make an attempt to get up before Beomgyu immediately has you sit back down, wasting no time to press his face between your legs, skirt over his head. His tongue pokes out to lick on over your panties, gradually wetting it and you sigh, the tenseness of your body evaporating. “Yeah, thats it. Be g-good for me pet.” He whines at that.
He doesn’t tease any longer the moment your hands go to grab his hair and suddenly he bunches your panties to the side and you feel the contact of his hot tongue on your cunt, already lapping away like a dog. Dumb dog. Dumb dog. Dumb dumb dumb—but shit he’s having you curl your toes at the speed he’s going, the way he moans against your pussy like hes somehow enjoying eating you out more than you are.
“You’re my toy, nothing else. But you just keep—you keep irritating me, you keep being a dick, you keep provoking me.” you breathe out, tightening your fistful of his hair in your hand, making his moans even louder, nuzzling closer in your pussy you think he might genuinely suffocate at this point. But knowing him, he’d probably like that. “God, you absolute loser.”
He whines something intelligible, wet eyes looking up at you with his brows pulling up—it makes you gasp as you bite down on your bottom lip. He’s so pretty it’s unfair. Why’s such a sinful person so pretty? God must really have the time of his life making this hell for you.
You take it upon yourself to lift yourself a bit, grinding on his face harder, trying to reach your high, obstructing your view of his face—even with the anxiety of doing this so out in the open resting at the pit of your stomach. He’s practically mewling in your pussy, and the sounds send vibrations, his nose bumping up your clit every now and then. He lets you use him, he just lets you.
When Beomgyu fully submits like this to you…you see stars, you come hard. “More…more”, he groans, licking up your arousal. It’s so dirty, it really is, but you can’t help but nod.
Having the skater eat you out till your legs were jelly at a skatepark late at night would …surely guarantee your place in hell.
“You’re such a whore, letting me fuck your face like this baby—don’t soil your pants yet, I know how you get. Probably getting off at the fact that we’re out l-like this…h-hah—dirty, dirty boy.”
He shakes his head, the glistening sweat of his forehead and the matted strands on his temple proof of how hard hes really going at it. “Not dirty. Just wan’ your attention..”
The second you tut at him for stopping he immedietely dives back in—you don’t know if it’s more him being afraid of a punishmet or because he himself doesn’t want to stop. Never mind that, because now hes wrapping his pretty lips around your clit and you’re fucking losing your mind with how quick your head clouds.
There are so many things circling your head right now. And this always happens whenever he starts talking during a hook up. Yes, it helps you get to an edge even faster but its for all the wrong reasons. He’d dirty talk for a bit before switching up, and suddenly all of his words are loving and cute and adorable and, and that’s bad. When you see him other than the image he’s curated for himself—that’s when you start feeling the unfamiliar butterflies fluttering.
You don’t like it. He’s not good for you.
“Stop thinking, only focus on me.” You gasp, your fingers digging into his tangled hair, disheveling it even more. Only him.
He makes you orgasm again, and when you catch your breath you gently push his head away, then harder when he can’t seem to stop kissing your inner thighs. He sighs, dropping it, but not without giving you one last puppy plea. You avoid his eyes, pulling your panties up and scoping around the area, all of a sudden feeling exposed. Did you really just let this punk eat you out on a staircase?
You stand up, dusting your ass, taking note of the redness of his knees and the large wet patch in between his crotch when Beomgyu follows, getting up from his knees, wiping his ridiculously wet lips. You tuck a strand behind your ear as you awkwardly stand, thinking over what you’re going to say now.
We’re over, bye.
I’ll go home now, don’t call me.
I hope you know how bad you messed up. Bye.
I’m blocking you on everything so don’t even think of contacting me.
“Don’t leave me.”
…That has you snap out of your reverie.
His voice is low, no doubt vulnerable. This is the worst. This is bad. Shit.
You clear your throat. “Why? Why shouldn’t I? Even if I didn’t want to I’d have to…my dad knows about you now because of the little stunt you pulled and he definitely doesn’t approve of you.” You mumble the last part, crossing your arms and keeping your distance. But that’s not of any use when he steps forward every time you take a step back.
“I’m—” He runs a hand through his hair again, clearly frustrated. And you don’t understand why, does he really operate life thinking there aren’t consequences to his actions? If he didn’t want to stop this so bad why’d he tell people about your relationship when you explicitly told him not to? “We can—we can do it in secret like we did this entire time. He doesn’t have to know.”
You sigh, also frankly frustrated. “Beomgyu! Why can’t you just-"
Suddenly you’re in his embrace, engulfing you so gently and yet the desperation in it couldn’t have been any more tighter. “Please, please don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll really do everything you want, I’ll be your toy, your pet, whatever shit you’re into—just don’t leave me."
You really shouldn’t give in. You really, really shouldn’t.
But then he nuzzles into your neck, mumbling with that slight whiny drawl in his tone, “I’ll be your good boy, promise. Won’t misbehave anymore.”
Of course you give in.
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୨୧ note. honestly don’t know where this came from, i was just making up backstory as i was writing. literally only had one thought and one thought only, what if sub!bad boy x dom! good girl? and that was the small attempt made here lol, i love hearing any feedback or even a theory or two concerning the story’s world as i might explore these characters again 🙏
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